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Published  by  CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


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CHILDREN  OF  THE 
DEAR    COTSWOLDS 


CHILDREN  OF  THE 
DEAR  COTSWOLDS 


BY 

L.    ALLEN    HARKER 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 

1918 


COPTHIQHT,   1916.  1917,   1918,  BY 

CHARLES  SCRIBNERS  SONS 


Published  October,  1918 


COmUGHT,  1»15,  191t.  BY  THE  BLTTERICK  PUBLISHING  CO. 


stack 
H^nnex 

PR 


TO 

THE  COUNTESS  BATHURST 


Dear  to  you,  too,  the  small  "uplandish"  town 
The  steep  stone  roofs,  the  graceful  gabled  street, 
The  great  beech  woods,  the  rolling  purple  down. 
The  golden  fields  that  shimmer  in  the  heat 
With  molten  glow  of  buttercups  ablaze — 
Dear  to  you,  too. 

Dear  to  you,  too,  the  folk,  slow-spoken,  kind, 
Wise  with  a  mother-wisdom  not  of  books ; 
The  sturdy  " Cotsal-bred"  of  cautious  mind, 
That  judges  men  by  "doin's,  not  by  looks," 
With  sapient  nods  and  trenchant  homely  phrase — 
Dear  to  you,  too. 

And  since  you  love  them  well — people  and  land — 
/  bring  you  stories  of  them — just  a  few 
Old  folk  and  young — in  hope  you'll  let  them  stand 
With  others  that  I  wot  of  dear  to  you. 
How  happy  should  these  prove  in  future  days- 
Dear  to  you,  too. 


FOREWORD 

"I'm  homesick  for  my  hills  a^ain — 
My  hills  again! 
To  see  above  the  Severn  plain, 
Unscabbarded  against  the  sky, 
The  blue  high  blade  of  Cotswold  Ue." 

F.  W.  Hakvey. 

I  WAS  in  the  train,  and  at  Swindon  a  mud- 
stained  "Tommy,"  hung  round  with  equip- 
ment hke  the  White  Knight,  and  accompanied 
by  an  old  lame  man  and  a  yoimg  lad,  tumbled 
into  my  carriage  just  as  the  train  was  leaving 
the  station.  The  old  man  and  the  lad  had 
evidently  been  to  meet  the  soldier  at  the  junc- 
tion, so  as  to  lose  no  possible  moment  of  the 
precious  "leaf."  They  were  very  cheery,  and 
in  turn  refreshed  themselves  from  a  bottle, 
what  time  the  rather  uncheerful  smell  of  the 
very-small-ale  permitted  at  present  was  wafted 
about  the  carriage.  Mingled  with  the  rattle 
of  the  train  came  scraps  of  conversation :  much 
mutual  exchange  of  news  in  the  slow,  rum- 
bling Gloucestershire  voices,  a  httle  quickened 

vii 


Foreword 

and  sharpened;  just  then,  by  excitement  and 
the  shamefaced  emotion  that  refused  to  be 
entirely  hidden.  Every  now  and  then  one 
would  hear  such  sentences  as,  "Ah,  so  'a  be, 
at  Armenteers  that  was,  poor  Ernie!  and  us 
could  never  find  no  trace  on  'im." 

But  as  we  neared  Kemble  they  fell  silent  in 
the  last  cold  gleam  of  the  fading  sunlight  of  a 
February  afternoon.  The  soldier  reached  for 
his  equipment,  slung  it,  let  down  the  window, 
and  leaned  out.  Inhaling  a  deep  breath  of 
the  keen  Cotswold  air,  he  looked  back  into  the 
carriage,  and,  with  a  world  of  love  in  his  voice, 
said  slowly,  "There  'a  be,  dear  old  Kemble — 
'a  do  look  clean." 

And  faster  than  they  had  tumbled  in  they 
tumbled  out,  to  be  surrounded  by  a  group  of 
welcoming  friends,  but  not  before  the  soldier 
had  hauled  out  my  heavy  suitcase  for  me,  as 
I,  too,  alighted  there.  I  was  going  on  to 
Cirencester,  but  the  only  porter  left  in  these 
strenuous  times,  a  very  elderly  porter,  was 
absorbed  into  the  welcoming  group,  and  I 
wouldn't  have  disturbed  him  for  the  world. 
I  wondered  rather  forlornly  who  would  carry 
my  suitcase  up  the  stairs  and  across  the 
viii 


Foreword 

bridge  for  me,  when  out  of  the  gathering  twi- 
Hght  there  appeared  another  khaki-clad  fig- 
ure, who  turned  out  to  be  a  soldier  of  my  very- 
own,  just  then  training  a  batteiy  at  Codford, 
who  was  coming  to  join  me  for  a  week-end 
with  friends  at  Cirencester. 

As  we  reached  the  long  platform  that  runs 
alongside  the  shuttle  line,  he  too  sniffed  de- 
hghtedly  at  the  good  Cotswold  air,  and  said, 
"Dear  old  place — how  clean  it  feels!" 

This  is  just  an  epitome  of  what  is  happen- 
ing all  over  England  every  time  a  leave  train 
starts  inland  from  the  coast.  It's  not  only 
home  and  family  our  men  are  so  glad  to  see 
— ^it's  the  land  that  bred  them. 


'God  gives  all  men  all  earth  to  love. 
But,  since  man's  heart  is  small. 

Ordains  for  each  one  spot  shall  prove 
BelovM  over  all." 


And  for  some  of  us  that  spot  happens  to  be 
in  the  Cotswolds. 

Nowhere  has  the  spirit  of  place  been  more 
insistent  and  persistent.  Surely  no  coimty 
has  more  melodious  names  than  Gloucester- 
shire.   They  chime  in  the  ears  of  those  that" 

ix 


Foreword 

love  them  like  a  peal  of  old  mellow  bells.  No 
ugly  place  could  ever  be  called  Colne  St. 
Aldwyns  or  Fretherne  or  Minsterworth,  and 
there  is  something  in  the  very  sound  of  Bi- 
bury,  Pinbury  and  Sapperton,  Rendcombe 
and  Miserden,  that  carries  with  it  a  sense  of 
wide  grass  glades  and  great  old  trees  gathered 
together  in  sun-flecked  woods  that,  in  May, 
are  caipeted  with  bluebells  and,  in  October, 
are  glorious  in  the  vivid  reds  and  yellows  of 
the  turning  beeches.  What  pleasaunces  to 
dream  in  when  you  are  amongst  them !  What 
faerie  lands  to  dream  of  when  you  are  far 
away! 

Listen  to  the  names.  Say  them  over  softly 
— Maisemore,  Hartpury,  Lassington:  these  are 
in  the  vale.  Don't  you  hear  how  homesick 
we  are  who  whisper  them  lovingly  where  there 
are  none  to  recognise  them?  And  the  King 
of  the  Cotswolds  is  Cissister  (the  railway  may 
call  it  Cirencester  if  it  likes,  but  that  is  how 
the  natives  know  it) — Cissister  of  the  wide 
market-place  and  narrow  irregular  streets, 
with  the  wise-looking  old  gabled  houses  that 
have  smiled  down  upon  so  many  generations 
of  sturdy  Cotswold  folk.    Grey  are  the  Cots- 


Foreword 

wold  houses,  stone-roofed  and  steeply  gabled, 
welcoming,  friendly,  venerable;  and  surely 
there  is  something  very  delightful  in  the 
thought  that  just  now  young  America  looks 
down  (from  a  considerable  height  too)  on  those 
same  stone  roofs  and  gables.  For  young 
America  is  flying  (literally,  not  figm^atively) 
all  over  the  Cotswolds.  One  wonders  what 
the  Church  and  the  Abbey  and  the  House 
think  when  the  Hght-hearted  airmen  almost 
shave  their  roofs. 

The  mention  of  young  America  brings  me 
to  what  so  entirely  occupies  all  our  thoughts 
just  now,  that  there  might  seem  something 
almost  impertinently  irrelevant  in  daring  to 
write  of  anything  else.  But  just  inasmuch  as 
the  old,  easy-going,  com^fortable  England  has 
been  in  the  melting-pot  for  nearly  four  years, 
and  because  the  new,  nobler,  more  strenuous 
England  will  change  most  things,  it  has  seemed 
to  me  that  it  might  not  be  amiss  to  collect 
these  Httle  sketches  of  some  dear  Cotswold 
folk,  old  and  young,  of  what  will  soon  seem  an 
almost  forgotten  time. 

Much  has  been  written,  and  admirably 
written,  of  the  Cotswolds  themselves;  but  not 

xi 


Foreword 

much  to  my  knowledge — except  in  the  ever- 
delightful  "Cotswold  Village,"  by  Arthur  Gibbs 
— about  the  people. 

Most  of  the  people  in  this  book  belong  to 
those  old  easy  times  of  over  twenty  years  ago. 
Only  one  of  the  stories  deals  with  anything 
approaching  "present  day/'  and  it  is  nearly 
four  years  old.  One  stoiy — I  may  as  well 
confess  it  here — has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
Cotswolds;  but  Teddy  in  "A  Soldier's  But- 
ton" was  Paul's  cousin — and  a  dear,  and  the 
Cotswold  country  is  the  most  hospitable  coun- 
try in  the  world,  so  we  let  him  in.  Mrs.  Bir- 
kin,  Mrs.  Cushion,  Williams,  and  Dorcas 
Heaven  are  of  the  soil,  and  so  are  the  children. 

Mrs.  Birkin,  Mrs.  Cushion,  and  hundreds 
like  them,  have  had  their  hand  in  the  making 
of  our  men.  They  are  but  humble,  simple 
folk.  In  their  Hves  they  asked  but  little  of 
fate,  and  what  fate  sent  they  accepted  with 
the  patient  philosophy  of  the  poor.  They 
belonged  to  their  period,  and  their  period  has 
passed. 

Cotswold  names  are  so  much  prettier  than 
any  one  can  imagine  that  it  has  always  been 
a  self-denying  ordinance  to  refrain  from  using 


Foreword 

them,  but  generally  I  have  resisted  tempta- 
tion. Otherwise  somebody  might  go  seeking 
Mrs.  Birkin  in  Arlington  Row  and  be  angry 
with  me  because  she  is  no  longer  there.  I 
live  in  terror  of  accurate  people  with  large- 
scale  maps,  who  seek  to  pin  me  down  to  this 
place  or  that.  But  they  may  take  it  from 
me  that  all  the  places  are,  as  the  Cotswold 
folk  would  say,  "thar  or  thar  about.'* 

London,  May,  1918. 


xiu 


CONTENTS 


CRAPTBB  VAOa 

I.  Mrs.  Birkin's  Bonnet     ....  1 

II.  A  Philosopher  of  the  Cotswolds  22 

III.    Especially  Those 42 

rV.  At  Blue  House  Lock      ....  49 

V.    Keturah 63 

VI.  Mrs.  Cushion's  Children     ...  79 

VII.    Sanctuary 110 

VIII.  A  CoTSwoLD  Barmaid  .....  121 

IX.  Fuzzy  Wuzzy's  Watch     ....  127 

X.    The  Dark  Lady 140 

XI.  Her  First  Appearance    ....  153 

XII.  Our  Fathers  Have  Told  Us     .     .  161 

XIII.  A  Giotto  of  the  Cotswolds     .  175 


XV 


Contents 

CHAPTER  FAO» 

XIV.    The  Day  After 190 

XV.    A  Coup  d'etat 201 

XVI.  The  Staceys  of  Elcombe  House  213 

XVII.    A  Soldier's  Button 236 

XVIII.  Paul  and  the  Playwright      .     .  259 

XIX.    A  Misfit 289 

XX.  The  Contagion  of  Honour    .     .  314 


XVI 


CHILDREN  OF  THE 
DEAR    COTSWOLDS 


CHILDREN  OF  THE  DEAR 
COTSWOLDS 


MRS.  BIRKIN's  bonnet 

THE  very  first  time  that  the  baby  went  out 
the  monthly  nurse  carried  her  to  see  Mrs. 
Birkin;  and  as  she  marched  with  slow  and 
stately  tread  up  the  narrow  garden  path  to 
the  cottage,  a  swarm  of  bees  settled  all  over 
both  infant  and  nurse.  Fortunately  the  nurse 
was  a  Cotswold  woman,  and  knew  full  well 
that  if  a  swarm  of  bees  settles  upon  an  infant 
dm-ing  the  first  month  of  its  existence,  and 
departs  without  stinging,  it  is  a  very  lucky 
omen.  And  people  bom  in  other  parts  of  the 
world  will  agree  as  to  the  good  fortime  of  the 
latter  contingency. 

Mrs.  Birkin  in  her  porch,  and  the  nurse  in 
her  cloak  of  bees,  stood  like  two  statues  in  the 
hot  sunshine  of  that  September  afternoon,  the 

1 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

nurse  hardly  daring  to  breathe,  lest  by  some 
inadvertent  movement  she  should  change  so 
stupendous  a  piece  of  luck  into  disaster. 

Presently  the  brown  cloud  lifted  itself  from 
the  white  bundle  in  the  anxious  nurse's  arms 
and  passed  with  its  own  triumphant  music  to 
some  other  place. 

The  baby  still  slept  sweetly,  oblivious  alike 
of  good  or  evil  fortune.  Mrs.  Birkin,  her 
ruddy  cheeks  pale  under  the  weather-stains 
of  years,  came  forth  from  her  cottage  as  the 
nurse  tottered  to  meet  her,  holding  out  the 
baby  and  exclaiming  hysterically:  "Take  her, 
take  her,  and  let  me  sit  down  somewhere,  for 
my  legs  won't  bear  me  no  longer !" 

"The  Lard  be  praised!"  cried  Mrs.  Birkin, 
seizing  the  baby.  "That  there  lamb  '11  be 
lucky  an'  good-lookin',  an'  she'll  'ave  a  good 
'usban'  for  sure.  Bless  'er !  Them  bees  knows 
what  they  be  about,  an'  'tis  plain  they  knew 
as  you  was  Cotsal  barn  an'  bred,  an'  wasn't 
none  of  them  faintin',  scritchin'  women  as 
don't  rekkemise  the  Lard's  voice,  not  when  'E 
'oilers  in  their  yer." 

Then,  seated  on  the  Httle  wooden  seats  on 
each  side  of  the  tiny  porch,  the  women  pro- 

2 


Mrs.  Birkin's  Bonnet 

ceeded  to  sing  the  size  and  the  exceeding 
beauty  of  the  new  baby,  who  seemingly  pre- 
ferred the  soothing  lullaby  of  the  bees,  for  she 
woke  up  and  "hollered"  with  surprising  vigour. 

A  httle  later  the  baby  paid  her  visits  to 
Mrs.  Birkin  in  a  fine,  white  perambulator, 
and,  as  that  worthy  woman  put  it,  "You 
didn't  know  where  you  was"  before  that  re- 
markable infant  toddled  up  the  cobbled  path 
to  the  cottage  quite  unassisted. 

Time  slips  by  noiseless  and  fleet-footed  in  a 
quiet  Cotswold  village,  even  as  in  noisier  and 
more  strenuous  places,  and  "Squoire's  little 
darter"  grew  into  "our  young  lady."  To  be 
sure,  there  were  other  young  ladies  in  the 
neighbourhood,  for  the  village  is  large  and 
cheery,  with  many  nice  places  around;  but  the 
other  young  ladies  were  in  no  way  remarkable. 
No  swarm  of  bees  had  settled  on  any  of  them 
in  infancy.  For  it  really  seemed  as  if  some  of 
the  sturdy  sweetness  of  the  bees  had  passed 
into  the  baby  they  thus  honoured.  As  was 
said  of  jolly  Dick  Steele,  "she  was  liked  in  all 
company  because  she  liked  it." 

And  now  the  village  was  upside  down  with 
excitement,  for  our  young  lady  was  going  to 

3 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

be  married,  and  Mrs.  Birkin  was  to  have  a  new 
bonnet  for  the  great  occasion. 

Mrs.  Birkin  felt  that  she  had  an  unusually 
important  part  to  play  in  the  festivities  at- 
tendant on  this  great  event,  for  our  young 
lady's  father,  who  had  an  excellent  memory 
for  dates,  had  decreed  that  the  wedding-day 
should  be  on  the  anniversary  of  the  day  on 
which,  nineteen  years  before,  the  swarm  of 
bees  had  distinguished  his  daughter.  Such  a 
thing  had  never  happened  since,  though  plenty 
of  babies  had  come  both  to  Mrs.  Birkin's  vil- 
lage and  the  other  villages  round  about,  and 
you  may  be  sure  that  Mrs.  Birkin  knew  all 
about  every  baby  that  arrived  within  a  ten- 
mile  radius.  She  is  an  authority  upon  babies. 
She  is  one  of  those  women  who  is  everybody's 
mother  because  she  has  no  Hving  children  of 
her  own.  In  the  churchyard,  under  the  green 
mound  that  now  marks  the  humble  resting- 
place  of  Mr.  Birkin,  there  were  once  two  tiny 
graves,  where,  side  by  side,  lay  Mrs.  Birkin's 
twin  sons.  And  for  the  sake  of  those  two 
babies,  dead  these  forty  years,  Mrs.  Birkia's 
heart  had  kept  young  and  kind,  and  full  of 
love  for  all  other  babies.    So  that  it  came 

4 


Mrs.  Birkin's  Bonnet 

about  that  the  very  Grossest  infant  ever  born 
into  a  world  it  seemed  to  find  singularly  un- 
attractive was  good  with  Mrs.  Birkin,  and  in 
consequence  she  was  in  great  request  with  busy 
mothers. 

Nor  was  it  only  the  babies  who  loved  Mrs. 
Birkin.  Little  girls  brought  their  dolls  for  her 
to  dress,  and  httle  boys,  even  bad  little  boys, 
whose  grubby  hands  were  against  every  other 
man,  woman,  or  child  in  the  village,  refrained 
from  pillaging  Mrs.  Birkin's  garden,  and  had 
been  known  to  weed  it  for  her,  all  for  love. 

For  months  past,  in  fact,  ever  since  our 
yoimg  lady's  engagement  was  announced,  Mrs. 
Birkin  had  pondered  the  great  question  of  the 
Bonnet.  She  had  not  had  a  new  bonnet  for 
six  years.  Four  years  before  that,  again,  she 
had  indulged  in  a  widow's  bonnet,  in  which, 
on  Sundays,  she  did  honour  to  the  memory  of 
the  departed  Birkin;  until  the  crape  grew 
green  with  age,  and  our  young  lady  herself 
suggested  that  the  time  had  come  when  Mrs. 
Birkin's  somewhat  mitigated  woe  might  find 
expression  in  head-gear  less  indicative  of  in- 
tense gloom. 

In  our  village,  except  of  "a  Simday,"  the 
5 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

question  of  costume  is  extremely  simple.  The 
men  wear  corduroy;  the  women,  lilac  or  pink 
print,  with  sunbonnet  to  match.  There  are 
those  who  wish  that  the  wearing  of  these  imi- 
forms  extended  to  Sundays, — the  villagers,  in 
the  week,  are  so  much  more  in  harmony  with 
the  beautiful,  grey,  old  houses, — but  those  who, 
like  "Squoire,"  love  these  people  well,  would 
not  for  the  world  debar  them  from  the  wearing 
of  that  finery  dear  to  the  heart  of  woman  in 
cottage  and  castle  alike. 

Squoire  drives  a  coach,  and  often  on  Satur- 
day afternoons  he  will  pull  up  in  the  very 
middle  of  our  one  street  and  shout,  "Any  one 
for  the  town?"  And  sure  enough,  three  or 
four  eager  damsels  and  matrons  bustle  out  of 
their  cottages,  are  packed  in  as  inside  passen- 
gers, and  away  goes  the  coach  to  distant 
"Ziren,"  where  country  folk  can  see  the  shops 
and  make  their  purchases,  Squoire  bringing 
them  and  their  bundles  home  in  the  evening 
again,  and  never  a  penny  to  pay  for  carriage 
hire. 

Three  times  lately  had  Mrs.  Birkin  made 
this  journey  to  "Ziren,"  rightly  so  called  from 
its  many  fascinations.     She  had  flattened  her 

6 


Mrs.  Birkln's  Bonnet 

nose  against  the  plate-glass  windows  of  that 
stately  shop  in  the  market-place  where  there 
were  displayed  hats  of  the  most  bewitching 
beauty,  and  fabrics  so  delicate  that  Mrs.  Bir- 
kin  fairly  caught  her  breath  at  the  mere  idea 
of  any  one  daring  to  wear  them.  It  was  im- 
doubtedly  an  entrancing  vision,  that  shop; 
but  then  nothing  was  priced,  and  there  were 
no  bonnets  in  that  window,  and  for  a  bonnet 
Mrs.  Birkin  had  come  to  look. 

At  the  comer  of  Black  Jack  Street,  not 
quite  in  the  market-place,  but  facing  it,  was 
another  shop.  Here  there  were  hats  and  bon- 
nets in  plenty,  marked  in  plain  figures  for  all 
to  see,  and  there  was  one,  manifestly  a  bonnet 
"suitable  for  a  elderly  person,"  that  positively 
fascinated  Mrs.  Birkin.  Of  white  straw  was 
it,  trimmed  with  scarlet  geraniums  and  elegant 
excrescences  of  watered  ribbon  of  a  delicate 
mauve  shade — a  truly  bridal  bonnet,  fitted  to 
grace  even  the  marriage  of  our  young  lady  her- 
self. But  its  cost  was  twelve  and  sixpence, 
a  truly  prohibitive  price  for  Mrs.  Birkin — 
"A'most  a  month's  keep,"  she  sadly  whispered 
to  herself.  She  went  away  from  that  window. 
She  walked  right  round  the  market-place,  she 

7 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

looked  into  every  milliner's  window,  she  gazed 
upon  other  bonnets;  but  there  was  nothing  to 
compare  with  the  creation  compounded  of 
scarlet  geraniums  and  mauve  ribbon  in  the 
shop  in  Black  Jack  Street.  All  the  same,  Mrs. 
Birkin  went  home  with  only  three  yards  of 
scouring  flannel  to  show  for  her  day's  shopping. 

But  she  dreamed  of  the  bonnet,  and  her 
waking  hours  were  haunted  by  its  beauties. 
"I  can't  afford  no  more  nor  ten  shillin's,"  she 
said  to  a  neighbour  with  whom  she  discussed 
the  question.  "Mebbe  if  I  waits,  her'll  get  a 
bit  faded,  and  they'll  put  un  down  in  proice." 

Thrice  more  did  Mrs.  Birkin  avail  herself  of 
Squoire's  kindness  and  drive  in  the  coach  to 
Ziren,  and  on  the  third  occasion  she  screwed 
up  her  courage  to  enter  the  shop,  and  in  trem- 
bling tones  demanded  of  the  young  lady  be- 
hind the  counter  whether  there  was  any  chance 
of  the  bonnet — for  it  still  graced  the  window 
— "bein'  a  bit  cheaper  for  cash.  I  couldn't 
pay  for  un  to-day,"  she  added;  "but  next 
week  I  be  comin'  in  again,  an'  if  so  be  as  her 
were  two  shilHn'  less,  I  med  manage  un." 

The  yoimg  lady  was  good-natured  and  ap- 
proachable.    She  even  hfted  the  bonnet  from 

8 


Mrs.  Birkin's  Bonnet 

its  stand  in  the  window,  and  proposed  that 
Mrs.  Birkin  should  try  it  on. 

This  Mrs.  Birkin  did,  though  her  knees 
knocked  together  during  the  process,  and  she 
was  fain  to  confess  that  her  handsome,  sun- 
burnt face  was  assuredly  "uncommon  set  off" 
when  framed  in  the  scarlet  geraniums  and  pale 
mauve  ribbons. 

"Of  course  I  can't  promise  that  It  won't  be 
gone  before  next  week,"  said  the  young  lady. 
"It's  a  very  attractive  article;  but  if  it  is  still 
here,  we  might  be  able  to  meet  you.  You 
wouldn't  like  me  to  put  it  aside  for  you,  to 
make  sure?"  she  suggested. 

But  here  Mrs.  Birkin  was  firm.  "No,"  she 
said;  "if  so  be  as  you  has  a  chanst  to  sell  it, 
far  be  it  from  me  to  stand  in  your  way.  But 
if  it  be  stni  yer,  when  I  do  come  back,  then, 
if  I've  got  the  money,  I'U  'ave  she.  The  rib- 
bons is  gettin'  a  bit  faded,"  she  added  shrewdly; 
and  with  this  parting  shot  Mrs.  Birkin  hurried 
from  the  shop  to  buy  yellow  soap. 

She  was  not  well  off,  even  as  such  a  term 
is  modestly  read  in  a  Cotswold  village  com- 
munity. For  one  thing,  she  was  far  too  fond 
of  giving.    For  another,  although  she  "went 

9 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

out  days"  when  she  got  the  chance,  and  was 
as  sturdy  and  healthy  at  sixty  as  many  women 
are  at  forty,  yet  she  could  no  longer  work  in 
the  fields  in  summer,  a  long  day's  haymaking 
being  more  than  she  could  stand.  Squoire 
let  her  Uve  in  her  cottage  rent  free,  for  the  de- 
parted Birkin  had  been  one  of  his  laboiu'ers; 
moreover,  his  daughter  was  very  fond  of  Mrs. 
Birkin,  and  that  went  a  long  way  with  Squoire. 
He  also  had  obtained  for  her  of  late,  from  cer- 
tain mysterious  powers  called  "Guardians," 
an  allowance  of  three  and  sixpence  a  week,  so 
that  with  what  she  could  earn  Mrs.  Birkin  got 
on  fairly  comfortably.  The  bonnet  money 
was  money  saved  up  for  years  against  illness, 
but  "Law  bless  you !"  she  said,  "'tis  only  once 
in  a  way.  That  there  bonnet  '11  sarve  me  till 
I  be  put  away  in  churchyard  along  of  Birkin, 
an'  if  I  don't  go  foine  to  see  that  there  blessed 
Iamb  married  to  her  good  gentleman,  when  be 
I  to  go  foine?    You  just  tell  me  that." 

The  day  of  the  wedding  was  drawing  near. 
Only  six  days  now  till  the  great  day  itself. 
But  Mrs.  Birkin  was  still  bonnetless.  In  vain 
did  she  count  her  savings  over  and  over  again  ; 
by  no  arithmetical  process  could  they  be  per- 

10 


Mrs.  Birkin's  Bonnet 

suaded  to  amount  to  more  than  eleven  shillings 
and  fivepence  three  farthings.  Squoire  sent 
round  word  that  he  would  drive  the  coach  into 
Ziren  that  afternoon  and  that  anybody  might 
go  that  liked.  Mrs.  Birkin  went,  carrying  with 
her  her  whole  worldly  wealth. 

Once  in  the  market-place,  she  hurried  to  the 
shrine  of  the  Bonnet.  It  was  still  there,  and 
on  it  was  a  card  bearing  the  reassuring  legend, 
"Much  reduced;  only  nine  and  elevenpence 
halfpenny." 

Mrs.  Birkin  paused  outside  that  she  might 
savour  the  sweets  of  purchase  by  anticipation. 
For  fully  five  minutes  did  she  stand  gloating 
over  the  bonnet — her  bonnet,  as  she  already 
felt  it  to  be,  and  she  was  on  the  point  of  enter- 
ing the  shop  when  she  caught  sight  of  a  neigh- 
bour on  the  other  side  of  the  road,  one  Mrs. 
Comley,  who  held  by  the  hand  a  small  and 
exceedingly  dirty  boy  about  ten  years  old.  His 
free  hand  was  thrust  into  one  of  his  tearful 
eyes,  and  sobs  shook  his  small  frame.  It  was 
plain  that  Ernie  Comley  was  in  grievous  trouble. 
Mrs.  Comley,  too,  looked  flushed  and  misera- 
ble. She  was  an  unhealthy-looking,  under- 
sized Httle   woman   whose   somewhat   dreary 

11 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

days  were  passed  in  futile  attempts  to  over- 
take her  multifarious  duties.  Mrs.  Comley 
was  no  manager;  and  it  was  not  surprising, 
for  one  weakly  baby  was  hardly  set  upon  its 
bandy  legs  before  another  appeared  to  claim 
her  whole  attention.  Comley  was  a  farm- 
labourer  ^dth  twelve  shillings  a  week,  so  that 
the  charitable  made  excuses  for  Mrs.  Comley. 
Besides,  she  "did  come  from  Birmiggum,"  and 
the  Cotswold  folk  felt  that  that  explained  any 
amount  of  slackness  and  general  incompetence. 

It  was  not  in  the  nature  of  Mrs.  Birkin  to 
pass  by  any  one  in  trouble.  She  forgot  her 
bonnet  for  the  moment,  and  hurried  across  the 
road  to  inquire  the  cause  of  Ernie's  tears. 

"We  come  by  the  carrier  this  morning," 
Mrs.  Comley  explained, — it  was  like  her  to 
pay  for  the  carrier  when  "Squoire"  would 
have  brought  her  for  nothing, — "I  'ad  so  much 
to  do,  an'  Ernie  'e  done  nothing  but  w'ine  and 
cry  somethin'  dreadful  all  the  time  because  I 
told  'im  plain  'e  can't  go  to  no  weddin's,  nor 
no  treats  after,  neither.  Do  you  know  what 
that  boy've  bin  an'  done?  'E've  gone  an' 
tore  the  seat  clean  out  of  'is  Sunday  trowsies, 
an'  there  ain't  a  bit  of  the  same  stuff  nowhere. 

12 


Mrs.  Birkin's  Bonnet 

We've  bin  an'  tried  all  over  the  place;  an'  go 
in  corderoys  'e  shall  not,  shamin'  me  before  all 
the  neighboiu^,  as  is  nasty-tongued  enough  as 
it  is.  'E  be  the  most  rubsome  child  I  ever 
see.  There  ain't  no  keepin'  'im  in  clothes, 
that  there  ain't." 

Mrs.  Comley  gave  the  "rubsome"  Ernie  a 
spiteful  shake,  which  caused  that  unhappy 
urchin  to  burst  into  renewed  and  louder  sobs. 

"There,  there,"  said  Mrs.  Birkin,  soothingly, 
"don't  'ee  take  on  so!  There's  sure  to  be 
Bummat  as  can  be  done,  and  I'm  sartin  of  this, 
as  our  young  lady  'ad  far  sooner  'e  come  in  'is 
corderoys  than  stopped  away.  She  said  most 
partic'lar  as  she  'oped  heverhody  'u'd  come. 
There,  Ernie,  then,  don't  'ee  take  on  so."  And 
Mrs.  Birkin  patted  the  boy's  shoulder  with  a 
kind,  comforting  hand. 

"I  tell  you  as  there  ain't  nothing  as  can 
be  done,"  Mrs.  Comley  retorted  fretfully. 
"Them  does  is  tore  about  shockin'.  They 
wasn't  new  when  'e  got  'em,  an'  'e  be  that 
rubsome  they've  all  fell  to  pieces.  'Tain't 
only  the  trowsies.  And  do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  that  'e  could  go  to  hany  weddin'  like  this 
'ere?" 

13 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Mrs.  Birkin  fell  back  a  step  that  she  might 
the  better  regard  the  lachrymose  Ernie,  and 
sorrowfully  she  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
his  mother  was  right;  for,  indeed,  his  appear- 
ance was  the  reverse  of  festal.  Although  his 
corduroy  trousers  had  so  far  withstood  his 
rubsome  tendencies,  his  jacket  had  given  way 
at  the  elbows,  and  he  looked  altogether  as  dis- 
reputable a  small  boy  as  could  be  met  in  a 
summer's  day. 

"I  tried  to  get  'im  a  suit  at  the  Golden 
Anchor,  if  they'd  only  'ave  let  me  take  it  on 
credit;  but  they  be  that  'ard — 'cash  with  bor- 
der,' that's  their  style.  An'  it's  no  manner  of 
use  me  a-goin'  to  any  of  the  big  tailors:  they 
wouldn't  so  much  as  look  at  me.  There,  Ernie, 
do  'old  that  row.  You'll  never  be  missed  in 
all  that  crowd.  No  one  '11  know  but  what 
you  was  there." 

This  reflection  seemed  in  no  way  to  comfort 
Ernie,  who  burst  forth  into  a  loud  howl,  and 
was  dragged  down  the  market-place  by  his 
weary  and  incensed  parent. 

Mrs.  Birkin  stood  where  she  was,  inmiersed 
in  thought.  Across  the  road  the  bonnet  shop 
beckoned  beguilingly,  and  her  work-worn  hand 
14 


Mrs.  Birkin's  Bonnet 

tightened  upon  her  purse.  Slowly  she  crossed 
the  road,  and  once  more  stood  staring  at  the 
bonnet.  How  beautiful  it  was !  How  briUiant 
its  geraniums,  how  crisp  and  dainty  its  bosses 
and  twists  of  ribbon!  "It  be  like  the  bit  o' 
carpet  beddin'  under  Squoire's  drawin'-room 
windows,  that  'a  be,"  said  Mrs.  Birkin  to  her- 
self. 

She  stared  so  hard  at  the  bonnet  that  her 
eyes  grew  misty,  and  the  card  with  "much  re- 
duced" danced  before  her;  but  still  she  did 
not  go  into  the  shop.  She  stood  like  a  statue 
for  neariy  five  minutes,  still  staring  at  the 
bonnet;  but  she  no  longer  saw  it.  What  she 
saw  was  her  own  potato-patch  last  autumn; 
and  in  it,  hard  at  work,  was  Ernie  Comley, 
digging  her  potatoes  for  her  because  her  limi- 
bago  was  so  bad. 

"What  do  it  matter  for  a  hold  image  like 
me  what  I  do  wear?"  she  muttered.  Then 
she  turned  from  the  window  that  held  her 
heart's  desire,  and  hurried  down  the  market- 
place after  Mrs.  Comley  and  the  rubsome 
Ernie. 

She  found  them  staring  gloomily  into  the 
window  of  the  ready-made  clothes  shop. 

15 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"You  come  in  along  o'  me,"  she  cried  ex- 
citedly. "There's  a  suit  in  that  window,  'This 
style  eight  and  eleven  three,'  as  '11  just  do  for 
Ernie,  allowin'  for  growth.  I'll  buy  it  for  un, 
an'  you  can  pay  me  back  a  bit  at  a  time,  as 
is  most  convenient.    Come  on  in." 

The  suit  was  bought,  and  presently  Ernie, 
dirty,  and  as  cheerful  as  he  had  been  tearful 
a  few  minutes  before,  emerged  from  the  door- 
way, hugging  a  large  brown-paper  parcel. 

"I  must  do  my  shoppin'  sharpish,"  Mrs. 
Birkin  said  as  she  came  out  of  the  shop,  "or 
else  Squoire  '11  be  back  before  I  be  ready. 
Good  afternoon  to  you.  No;  don't  you  never 
name  it.  'Tis  no  more  than  you'd  'a'  done 
for  me." 

To  herself  she  murmured  as  she  hurried  up 
the  market-place,  "I  don't  suppose  as  she'll 
ever  pay  I,  she's  but  a  slack  piece;  but  I  could- 
n't abear  as  that  boy  shouldn't  'ave  none  of 
the  fim.    We're  none  on  us  young  but  once." 

Mrs.  Birkin's  Sunday  bonnet  was  black, 
and  although  a  black  dress  for  best  is  not  only 
permissible,  but  suitable,  for  an  elderly  cot- 
tager even  at  a  wedding,  to  wear  a  black  bon- 

16 


Mrs.  Birkin's  Bonnet 

net  upon  so  festive  an  occasion  is  to  commit 
a  solecism  of  the  most  glaring  kind. 

Mrs.  Birkin  was  a  woman  of  much  resource. 
Once  the  bonnet  of  her  dreams  had  become 
an  impossibility,  owing  to  the  expense  of 
Ernie  Comley's  wedding  garment,  she  set  her- 
self forthwith  to  manufacture  another  as  like 
the  one  in  the  shop  window  at  Ziren  as  her 
means  would  allow. 

To  that  end  she  purchased  a  small,  a  very 
small,  pot  of  cream  enamel;  red  flowers,  of  a 
nondescript  kind  it  is  true,  but  still  red,  and 
plenty  of  them  for  the  money;  and  three 
yards  of  pale  lavender  ribbon.  She  then 
picked  all  the  trimming  off  her  old  bonnet, 
washed  it,  dried  it  in  the  oven  with  the  door 
well  ajar,  lest  the  precious  thing  should 
"search."  When  dry,  she  enamelled  it  cream, 
inside  and  out,  and  when  the  enamel  in  its 
turn  had  dried,  she  trimmed  the  rejuvenated 
bonnet  with  the  new  flowers  and  ribbon. 
And  a  very  imposing  confection  it  looked, 
and  quite  unlike  anything  to  be  seen  in  any 
window  of  the  Ziren  shops.  Mrs.  Birkin  her- 
self felt  certain  misgivings  about  it;  but  she  had 
done  her  best,  and  by  her  best  she  must  abide. 

17 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

It  happened  that  the  night  before  the  wed- 
ding our  young  lady's  maid  was  packing  her 
going-away  trunk,  talking  the  while  about  the 
villagers  and  their  excitement  over  the  mor- 
row. This  maid  was  "own  niece"  to  Mrs. 
Birkin,  but  she  was  not  proud  of  the  relation- 
ship. She  was  a  smart  young  woman  who 
had  travelled,  and  she  looked  down  upon  her 
simple  old  aunt  with,  at  the  best,  a  tolerant 
sort  of  amusement. 

"You'll  see  some  wonderful  costumes  to- 
morrow. Miss,"  she  said  as  she  folded  dainty 
garments.  "The  whole  village  has  got  some- 
thing new.  My  old  aunt  now — not  that  you'll 
have  time  to  notice  such  as  she — ^but  you  never 
saw  such  a  bonnet  as  she's  gone  and  trimmed 
for  herself.  A  silly  old  woman,  that's  what  I 
call  her.  She'd  saved  up  quite  a  nice  bit  of 
money,  and  was  going  to  have  a  new  bonnet 
out  of  a  shop  in  the  town  they  sets  such  store 
by,  though  'tisn't  much  more  than  a  village 
to  them  as  have  travelled,  is  it,  Miss?  Well, 
what  does  she  go  and  do  but  lend  the  money 
as  she'd  saved  for  her  bonnet  to  a  woman  in 
the  village  to  buy  a  suit  for  one  of  them  nasty, 
mischievous  httle  boys,  so  that  he  could  come 

IS 


Mrs.  Birkin's  Bonnet 

to  your  weddin'  and  the  treats  an*  that. 
'Twasn't  aunt  told  me,  else  I'd  have  given  her 
a  piece  of  my  mind.  A  fool  and  his  money's 
soon  parted." 

Our  young  lady  turned  almost  fiercely  upon 
her  maid.  "I  think  it  was  perfectly  lovely  of 
Mrs.  Birkin,"  she  cried,  with  a  ring  in  her 
voice  that  warned  that  sharp  girl  she  had  in 
some  way  offended.  "I  wish  there  were  more 
people  like  her  in  the  world.  It  would  be  a 
kinder,  better  place.  There's  nothing  here 
one  half  so  beautiful  as  that  bonnet  of  hers." 

The  maid  went  on  folding  lace  petticoats  in 
silence,  for  there  was  a  sound  of  tears  in  her 
young  lady's  voice.  She  wondered  at  the 
curious  ways  of  the  gentry;  one  never  knew 
where  to  have  them. 

The  church  was  packed  for  the  wedding. 
Only  the  seats  on  one  side  of  the  central  aisle 
had  been  reserved  for  the  guests;  by  special 
request  of  the  bride,  the  other  side  was  kept 
for  the  villagers,  first  come,  first  served,  with 
no  distinctions  whatsoever.  Mrs.  Comley  was 
there,  with  Ernie,  all  new  suit  and  hair-oil. 
Mrs.  Birkin  came  a  full  hour  and  a  half  before 

19 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

the  service,  and  secured  a  comer  seat  next  the 
aisle  from  which  wild  horses  could  not  have 
dragged  her. 

The  priest  had  said  his  say,  the  organist  was 
thundering  the  wedding-march,  the  wedding 
was  over,  and  the  bride,  her  veil  thrown  back 
from  her  radiant  face,  was  coming  down  the 
aisle  on  her  proud  young  husband's  arm. 
Mrs.  Birkin,  tearful  and  exultant,  stood  in 
her  place  devouring  the  pretty  spectacle  with 
eager,  kind  old  eyes.  As  the  bride  reached 
Mrs.  Birkin's  pew  she  stopped,  shpped  her 
hand  from  the  bridegroom's  arm,  and  turn- 
ing, flung  both  her  own,  bouquet  and  all, 
round  Mrs.  Birkin's  neck.  She  kissed  the 
old  woman  before  the  whole  church  and  whis- 
pered loudly  in  her  ear:  "Mrs.  Birkin,  dear, 
that's  the  most  beautiful  bonnet  I  ever  saw." 

In  another  moment  she  was  gone.  The  last 
pair  of  bridesmaids  had  passed,  and  after 
them,  visitors  and  villagers  alike  thronged 
into  the  sunshine.  Mrs.  Birkin,  her  bonnet 
much  awry,  owing  to  the  heavy  bridal  bou- 
quet, strayed  out  with  the  rest  in  a  sort  of 
solemn  rapture.  She  had  been  honoured  above 
all  other  women  on  that  great  day. 
20 


Mrs.  Birkin's  Bonnet 

"Wot  did  'er  say  to  you?"  asked  Mrs. 
Comley,  enviously,  when  they  got  outside. 

Mrs.  Birkin  laughed.  "Bless  'er  sweet 
face!"  she  exclaimed  triumphantly,  "if  her 
didn't  go  and  think  'twas  a  bran'  new  bonnet 
as  I'd  got  on!  I  must  'a'  made  un  over- 
smartish,  that  I  must." 


21 


n 

A  PHILOSOPHER  OF  THE  COT8WOLD8 

IT  is  possible  that  to  the  unobservant  his 
great  qualities  were  hidden:  all  that  they 
saw  in  him  was  a  tall,  shabby-looking  old 
man,  who  walked  with  that  indescribable 
garden-roller  sort  of  motion  usually  associated 
with  the  gait  of  those  who  minister  to  us  in 
the  coffee-rooms  of  hotels — an  old  man,  who, 
professedly  a  jobbing  gardener,  looked  like  a 
broken-down  something  else.  Frequently  they 
did  not  even  take  the  trouble  to  crystalHse 
their  doubt  into  a  question,  a  sure  and  certain 
measure  towards  its  solution. 

But  there  were  those  who  saw  beneath  the 
surface,  who  were  moreover  privileged  to  have 
speech  of  him — an^  he  was  always  very  ready 
to  converse,  leaning  on  his  spade  the  while, 
but  with  the  air  of  one  who  only  just  tolerated 
such  interruption — these  would  find  that  here 
was  one  whose  ideas  were  the  result  of  reflec- 
tion and  observation,  not  mere  echoes  of  the 


A  Philosopher  of  the  Cotswolds 

local  press;  or,  as  is  sometimes  the  case  in 
other  and  higher  walks  of  life,  those  of  the 
reviews  or  quarterlies. 

To  tell  the  truth,  my  philosopher  could 
read  but  indifferently  well,  and  when  he  in- 
dulged in  such  exercises,  as  "of  a  Sunday," 
Hked  the  print  to  be  large  and  black.  As  the 
halfpenny  papers  in  no  way  pander  to  such 
luxurious  tastes  in  their  readers,  he  was  fain 
to  take  his  news  second-hand,  by  word  of 
mouth,  thereby  materially  increasing  its  ro- 
mance and  variety. 

One  day,  a  propos  of  some  flowers  he  was  to 
take  to  the  church  for  Easter  decorations,  I 
asked  him  whether  he  was  a  churchman  him- 
self. "No,"  he  said  slowly,  stopping  short  and 
watching  me  somewhat  anxiously  to  see  the 
effect  of  this  pronouncement,  "  I  goes  to  chapel, 
they  'oilers  more,  and  'tis  more  loively  loike 
— I  bin  to  church,  I  'ave,  don't  you  think  as 
'ow  I  'aven't  sampled  'em  both  careful — ^but 
Oi  be  gettin'  a  holdish  man,  an'  them  curicks 
is  that  weakly  an'  finnicken  in  their  ways,  it 
don't  seem  to  do  me  no  sort  o'  good  nohow. 
Not  as  I've  nothin'  to  say  agen  'em,  pore  young 
gen'lemen;  they  means  well,  but  they  be  that 

23 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

afraid  of  the  sound  of  their  own  voices,  and 
they  looks  that  thin  and  mournful — I  can't 
away  with  'em."  Here  he  shook  his  head 
sadly,  as  though  overcome  with  melancholy  at 
the  mere  recollection. 

"You  are  quite  right  to  go  where  you  feel 
you  will  get  most  good,"  I  said  meekly.  "Is 
Mr.  Blank  a  very  powerful  preacher?" 

Williams  (that  was  his  name)  smiled  a  slow, 
crafty  smile,  shutting  one  eye  with  something 
the  expression  of  a  gourmand  who  holds  a 
glass  of  good  port  between  himself  and  the 
light.  "Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  should  go  so 
fiu*  as  to  say  as  'e's  powervul,  but  'e  do  'oiler 
an'  thimap  the  cushion  as  do  do  yer  'art  good 
to  see,  an'  'e  do  tell  us  plainish  where  them'U 
go  as  bain't  ther  to  yer  'im,  but  I  bain't  sure 
as  'e's  powervul.  The  powervullest  preacher 
I  ever  'ear  was  Fairford  way  at  a  hopen-air 
meetin' — an'  'e  was  took  up  next  day  for 
stealin'  bacon!"  Here  he  returned  to  his 
digging  with  the  air  of  one  who  had  said  the 
last  word  and  could  brook  no  further  inter- 
ruptions. 

Regarding  poHtics,  Williams  was  even  more 
guarded  in  his  statements:    I  could  never  dis- 

24 


A  Philosopher  of  the  Cotswolds 

cover  to  which  side  he  belonged,  even  at  a 
time  when  party  feeling  ran  particularly  high, 
as  our  town  had  been  in  the  throes  of  two 
ParHamentary  elections  within  the  year.  He 
seemed  to  regard  the  whole  of  the  proceedings 
with  a  tolerant  sort  of  amusement — tolerance 
was  ever  a  feature  of  his  mental  attitude 
towards  life  generally.  But  as  to  stepping 
down  into  the  arena  and  taking  sides ! — such  a 
course  was  far  from  one  of  his  philosophical 
and  analytic  temperament.  He  Hstened  to 
both  sides  with  a  gracious  impartiality  that  I 
have  no  doubt  sent  each  canvasser  away  equally 
certain  that  his  was  the  side  which  would  re- 
ceive the  listener's  "vote  and  interest." 

"The  yallers,  they  comes,"  he  would  say, 
wagging  his  large  head  to  and  fro,  and  smiling 
his  slow,  broad  smile,  "an'  they  says,  'If  our 
candidate  do  get  in,  you'll  see  what  us'll  do 
for  'ee.  'E'll  do  sech  and  sech,  an'  you'll  'ave 
this  'ere  an'  that.'  But  the  blues,  they  went 
and  sent  my  missus  a  good  blanket  on  the 
chanst." 

"And  for  whom  did  you  vote  after  all?"  I 
asked  with  considerable  curiosity. 

"Well,  I  bain't  so  to  speak  exactly  sure," 
25 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

he  said,  scratching  his  head.  "  I  bain't  much  of 
a  schollard,  so  I  ups  an'  puts  two  crasses,  one 
for  each  on  'em,  an'  I  goes  an'  marches  along 
of  two  percessions  that  same  day,  so  /  done 
my  duty." 

But  his  universal  tolerance  stopped  short 
of  his  legitimate  profession.  In  matters  horti- 
cultural he  was  a  veritable  despot,  sternly  dis- 
couraging private  enterprise  of  any  sort.  Above 
all  did  he  object  to  what  he  was  pleased  to  call 
"new  fanglements"  in  the  way  of  plants,  and 
in  the  autumn  had  a  perfect  passion  for  grub- 
bing up  one's  most  cherished  possessions  and 
trundling  them  off  in  the  wheelbarrow  to  the 
rubbish  heap.  One  autumn  a  friend  presented 
me  with  some  rare  iris  bulbs,  which,  knowing 
the  philosopher's  objection  to  "fancy  bulbs,"  I 
secreted  in  a  distant  greenhouse  which  he  as  a 
rule  scornfully  ignored.  On  a  day  when  some 
one  else  was  benefiting  by  his  ministrations  I 
hastened  to  fetch  them,  intent  on  planting 
them  "unbeknownst,"  as  he  would  have  said. 

Not  a  trace  of  them  remained,  and  I  had 

to  wait  until  his  next  visit,  when  I  timidly 

asked  if  he  happened  to  have  moved  them. 

"Lor'  bless  my  'eart !  was  them  things  bulbses? 

26 


A  Philosopher  of  the  Cotswolds 

I  thought  as  'ow  they  was  hold  onions  and  I 
eat  'em  along  of  a  bit  of  bread  for  my  lunch. 
I  remember  thinkin'  as  they  didn't  semm  very 
tasty  loike!" 

On  the  subject  of  the  then  war  there  was 
no  uncertain  sound  about  his  views,  and  had 
he  been  a  younger  man  his  waiter-like  walk 
would  doubtless  have  changed  to  the  martial 
strut  induced  among  the  rural  population  by 
perpetual  practice  of  the  goose-step.  As  it 
was,  he  thirsted  for  news  with  the  utmost 
eagerness,  and  hurried  up  one  Sunday  morn- 
ing to  inform  us  that  Lord  Roberts  had  taken 
"Blue  Fountain"  about  two  days  after  that 
officer  had  arrived  in  South  Africa. 

It  was  rumoured  that  a  gentleman  of  pro- 
Boer  proclivities  proposed  to  address  Hke- 
minded  citizens  in  the  "Com  Hall."  I  fear 
he  must  have  had  but  a  small  following  if,  as 
I  believe,  the  majority  of  the  natives  were  of 
like  mind  with  my  usually  philosophic  gar- 
dener. "I'd  warm  'im,"  Williams  exclaimed, 
digging  his  spade  into  the  ground  as  though 
the  offending  propagandist  were  underneath 
— "I'd  warm  'im.  I'd  knock  'is  ugly  'ead  off 
before  'e'd  come  'is  nasty  Boerses  over  me. 
27 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Let  'im  go  to  St.  'Elena  and  mind  'em;  then 
'e'd  know.  'Tain't  no  use  for  'im  to  come 
and  gibber  to  the  loikes  of  us  as  'ave  'eard 
their  goin's-on  from  them  as  'ave  fought  agen 
'em,  and  minded  'em  day  by  day  and  hour  by 
hour,  till  they  was  that  sick  and  weary!  .  .  . 
Boers!  I'd  Boere  'im,"  and  with  grunts  and 
snorts  expressive  of  intense  indignation  the 
philosopher  rested  on  his  spade,  glaring  at  me 
as  though  I  were  a  champion  of  the  King's 
enemies — ^which  Heaven  forbid. 

"It's  like  this  'ere,"  he  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment's pause:  "there's  toimes  w'en  the  meek- 
'eartidest  ain't  safe  if  you  worrits  'em,  and 
these  'ere  be  them  sart  of  toimes." 

When  he  became  gardener  to  friends  of 
mine,  he  was  old  and  they  were  young.  His 
progress  was  slow  and  dignified,  so  were  his 
manners.  He  could  wither  a  budding  enthu- 
siasm with  a  slow  smile  charged  fuU  of  scorn 
as  effectually  as  a  May  frost  withers  the  peach 
blossom.  His  own  omniscience  was  empha- 
sised in  such  fashion  as  to  make  his  employers 
acutely  conscious  of  their  youth  and  igno- 
rance. It  is  true  that  his  master  was  not  so 
28 


A  Philosopher  of  the  Cotswolds 

excessively  young,  but  then  neither  was  he 
particularly  well  instructed  in  matters  horti- 
cultural, and  Williams  had  but  a  poor  opinion 
of  a  man  who,  while  he  could  tell  you  the  long 
Latin  name  of  every  grass  in  the  field  and 
every  weed  in  the  hedgerow,  had  but  small 
appreciation  of  carpet  bedding,  and  had  been 
heard  to  remark  that  a  cabbage  moth  was  really 
much  prettier  than  a  cabbage.  Moreover,  the 
said  master  extended  his  hking  for  moths  and 
butterflies  to  other  "hinsekses"  of  various  and 
inferior  sorts,  and  collected  the  same  in  small 
glass  tubes,  of  which  he  carried  numbers  in  his 
pockets.  When  a  man  is  addicted  to  such 
"curus  fads"  as  these,  it  is  not  to  be  expected 
that  an  elderly  and  experienced  gardener 
should  so  much  as  consult  him  about  things 
connected  with  his  own  craft. 

Towards  his  mistress  Williams  showed  an 
indulgent  toleration;  not  that  he  ever  did 
what  she  asked  him — oh  dear,  no!  But  still 
he  permitted  her  to  "come  anigh  him,"  and 
shout  her  behests  into  his  ear.  He  was  de- 
cidedly deaf  at  the  best  of  times,  and  when 
suggestions  were  made  of  which  he  disap- 
proved his  infirmity  increased  tenfold. 
29 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Sometimes  the  "young  missus" — she  was 
really  young,  being  still  in  her  teens — at- 
tempted a  little  gardening  on  her  own  ac- 
count, as  when  she  planted  crocus  bulbs  on 
a  grassy  bank  facing  the  drawing-room  win- 
dows. She  had  hoped  that  Williams  would 
not  notice  them,  as  that  bank  was  never  mown 
till  well  on  in  the*  spring.  But  Williams  not 
only  noted  but  disapproved  their  very  earliest 
appearance.  "A  grass  bank  be  a  grass  bank," 
he  asserted,  "and  bulbs  a-growing  be  out  of 
place,"  so  he  mowed  the  grass  assiduously  and 
the  crocuses  came  to  nought. 

"He  really  is  a  most  aggravating  man,"  ex- 
claimed the  young  missus;  "he  won't  let  one 
have  a  thing  one  wants." 

However,  the  absolute  monarchy  of  Wil- 
liams was  not  destined  to  continue.  Even  as 
he  had  ruled  his  master  and  mistress  there 
arose  another  who  ruled  not  only  them  but 
Williams  also.  Where  the  young  missus  had 
meekly  suggested  that  certain  things  might 
be  done  in  such  a  way  as  they  never  were 
done,  this  personage  had  but  to  point  a  dimin- 
utive forefinger  in  the  direction  of  anything 
he  coveted  when  Williams  would  hasten  to 
30 


A  Philosopher  of  the  Cotswolds 

procure  it  for  him  with  the  greatest  alacrity. 
He  was  not  of  imposing  statm-e,  this  new  auto- 
crat. When  he  first  began  to  tyrannise  over 
Williams,  he  stood  just  about  as  high  as  that 
worthy's  knee,  and  his  walk,  in  its  uncertainty, 
strongly  resembled  that  of  WiUiams  himself 
on  the  night  of  the  last  election,  when  the 
Tory  candidate  was  returned  by  a  majority 
of  two  votes. 

But  to  return  to  the  autocrat.  He  certainly 
interfered  with  WilHams's  work,  causing  him 
to  waste  whole  hours  in  hovering  about  near 
the  drive  gate  that  he  might  catch  a  glimpse 
of  his  equipage  as  he  set  out  for  an  airing  in  a 
fine  white  coach  propelled  by  a  white-clad  at- 
tendant. Williams  would  not  have  been  averse 
from  occasional  parleyings  with  the  attendant. 
She  was  young  and  pretty;  but  she  had  other 
and  more  lively  fish  to  fry,  and  would  have 
scorned  to  do  more  than  exchange  the  most 
formal  of  passing  courtesies  with  "that  there 
deaf  old  gardener" — ^who,  however,  was  never 
so  deaf  but  that  the  clear  little  voice  calling 
"Weeams"  attracted  immediate  attention. 

As  time  went  on  and  the  autocrat's  steps 
grew  steadier,  the  white  coach  was  abandoned, 
31 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

and  whenever  he  could  the  late  occupant 
thereof  escaped  from  the  white-clad  attendant 
and  assisted  Williams  in  his  horticultural  op- 
erations— a  course  which  he  found  infinitely 
preferable  to  going  wallvs  with  his  nurse  upon 
the  highroad.  He  upset  all  WiUiams's  most 
cherished  theories,  and,  not  infrequently,  his 
practice.  He  insisted  upon  helping  to  wheel 
manure  from  the  stable-yard  to  the  potato 
patch,  and  fell  into  the  manure-heap.  He  hung 
on  to  a  big  water-can  that  WilHams  was  carry- 
ing with  such  force  that  he  spilled  most  of  the 
contents  over  himself,  and  he  persisted  in  dig- 
ging in  such  close  proximity  to  Williams  that 
the  senior  gardener  was  fain  to  rest  upon  his 
spade  and  admire  his  assistant.  He  possessed 
a  garden  of  his  own,  a  chaotic  piece  of  ground 
in  which  might  be  found  specimens  of  every- 
thing growing  in  the  larger  garden  all  mixed 
up  anyhow.  That  WilKams,  who  but  a  few 
short  years  ago  had  objected  to  innocent  cro- 
cuses upon  a  green  bank,  should,  with  his  own 
hands,  have  planted  a  beetroot  cheek  by  jowl 
with  a  Michaelmas  daisy,  and  allowed  a  potato 
to  flower  in  close  proximity  to  a  columbine, 
seems  incredible.  But  so  it  was. 
32 


A  Philosopher  of  the  Cotswolds 

"Bless  'is  'eart,  'e  do  like  a  bit  of  every- 
think,"  Williams  would  say,  wagging  his  head 
and  beaming  at  the  autocrat,  who  chattered 
incessantly  in  the  high,  clear  Httle  voice  that 
WiUiams  found  so  easy  to  hear.  The  young 
missus  profited  by  the  subjugation  of  Wil- 
liams to  do  sundry  bits  of  gardening  on  her 
own  accoimt  which  he  never  discovered.  As 
for  the  "professor  gen'leman,"  as  the  cottage 
children  called  him,  he  bowed  beneath  the 
yoke  of  the  autocrat  with  equal  meekness.  It 
is  said  that  a  fellow-feeling  makes  us  wondrous 
kind,  and  it  is  certain  that  Williams  and  his 
master  understood  each  other  perfectly  as  re- 
gards this  one  subject. 

In  exchange  for  his  instruction  in  gardening 
the  autocrat  occasionally  essayed  to  teach 
WilHams  granmiar. 

"You  mustn't  say  'he  were,'  Williams;  you 
must  say  *he  was.'  It's  'he  was;  we  were.' 
Do  you  understand?" 

"Well,  no,  Mazter  Billy,  I  can't  say  as  I  do; 
but  I'll  say  'we  was'  if  it  do  please  you." 

"No,  no,  Williams.    'We  were.'" 

"What  do  us  wear,  Mazter  Billy?"  Wil- 
liams would  interpose,  resting  on  his  spade 
33 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

and  smiling  broadly  at  his  own  wit;  while 
the  autocrat  broke  into  delighted  laughter,  and 
the  grammar  lesson  came  to  an  end  for  that 
day. 

When  the  "professor  gen'leman"  engaged 
his  gardener,  that  worthy  explained  that  he 
"didn't  want  no  reg'lar  'alf-'oliday,"  but  that 
during  the  cricket  season  he  would  like  an 
occasional  afternoon  off,  as  he  was  an  enthu- 
siastic admirer  of  the  national  game.  On  the 
autocrat's  fourth  birthday  the  old  gardener 
presented  him  with  a  tiny  cricket-bat,  and 
during  the  summer  months  gardening  was 
varied  by  batting  practice.  Williams  was  too 
old  and  too  stiff  to  bat  or  run  himself;  but  he 
bowled  to  the  Httle  boy  with  a  tennis-ball, 
and  gave  him  gentle  catches,  and  these  pro- 
ceedings delighted  Billy  as  much  as  they  in- 
terfered with  Williams's  proper  business. 

When  the  Fifth  of  November  came,  he 
made  what  Billy  called  a  "most  'normous  Guy 
Fawkes" — a  real  Guy  Fawkes,  stuffed  with 
straw,  and  clad  in  a  cast-off  coat  and  trousers 
of  WiUiams's  owti,  with  a  mask  for  a  face,  the 
whole  cro\Mied  by  a  venerable  top-hat.  It 
says  much  for  the  depth  and  sincerity  of  Wil- 
34 


A  Philosopher  of  the  Cotswolds 

liams's  affection  for  the  autocrat  that  he 
should  have  thus  sacrificed  a  hat  still  bearing 
the  smallest  outward  semblance  of  such  head- 
gear. For  Williams  himself  never  wore  any 
other  shape.  Winter  or  summer,  his  large 
bald  head  was  protected  from  rain  or  sun  by 
a  wide-brimmed  and  generally  seedy  tall  felt 
hat.  On  Sundays  it  was  a  silk  one,  carefully 
brushed,  but  decidedly  smudgy  as  regarded 
outline.  AU  the  children  in  the  adjacent  cot- 
tages were  bidden  to  see  the  guy,  as  WiUiams 
proudly  cast  it  upon  a  large  bonfire  that  he 
had  been  saving  for  the  occasion  for  many 
weeks.  The  professor  gentleman  let  off  rockets, 
and  even  Billy  himself  was  permitted  to  fire 
off  several  squibs.  It  was  altogether  a  great 
occasion,  and  was  regarded  in  the  autocrat's 
family  as  a  sort  of  apotheosis  of  WiUiams,  for 
shortly  afterwards  he  fell  ill,  and  grew  worse 
so  rapidly  that  he  was  removed  to  the  cottage 
hospital  in  the  town.  His  cottage  was  very 
small,  and  his  wife  very  old,  and  the  doctor 
is  a  man  who  has  the  very  greatest  objection 
to  letting  people  die  for  lack  of  proper  care  and 
attention. 
His  gentle  old  wife  crept  down  the  hill  every 
35 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

day  to  see  him,  but  her  accounts  were  far 
from  cheering. 

"'E  be  that  deaf  'e  can't  yer  what  they  do 
say,  and  'e  be  that  weak  and  low  nothin'  don't 
seem  to  rouse  'im." 

So  Billy's  father  went  down  to  the  hospital 
to  see  Williams,  and  found  him  lying,  gaunt 
and  ashen-coloured  and  still,  in  the  straight 
white  bed.  The  ward  was  clean  and  sunny 
and  comfortable,  but  Williams  did  not  seem 
to  mend. 

"He  seems  to  have  lost  heart,"  said  the 
cheery  matron;  "he's  not  so  very  old,  or  so 
very  ill,  but  that  he  might  get  round,  but  his 
deafness  is  against  him,  and  if  he  isn't  roused 
he'll  sHp  away  simply  because  he  doesn't  care 
to  stop." 

Billy's  father  leant  over  the  bed  and  laid 
his  hand  on  the  gnarled  work-worn  hand  lying 
outside  the  white  coverlet.  WilHams  opened 
his  eyes  and  stared  languidly  at  his  master. 
Presently  there  Hghted  in  the  tired  old  eyes  a 
gleam  of  recognition. 

"It  be  very  quiet  here,"  he  muttered,  "very 
lonesome  and  fur  aff;  them  doctors  and  nusses 
they  mumbles  so,  I  can't  yer  'em,  and  I'd 
36 


A  Philosopher  of  the  Cotswolds 

like  to  yer  suimnut.  ...    I  can  allays  yer 
Mazter  Billy,  'e  do  talk  so  sensible " 

"He  shall  come  and  see  you,"  said  the  vis- 
itor, loudly,  right  into  the  old  man's  ear;  but 
Williams  shook  his  head  wearily,  and  closed 
his  eyes  again. 

"What's  the  best  time?"  asked  Billy's 
father  of  the  matron.  "I'll  bring  the  Httle 
lad — ^it  might  rouse  him;  he  has  always  been 
so  fond  of  him." 

"The  morning's  the  best  time,"  she  an- 
swered. "He  sleeps  so  much.  We  can  but 
try  it,  sir." 

Next  day  the  autocrat — his  rosy  face  very 
solemn,  and  his  Httle  soul  oppressed  by  the 
solemnity  of  the  occasion — ^pattered  across  the 
parqueted  floor  to  the  bedside  of  old  Williams. 
The  occupants  of  the  three  other  beds  in  the 
men's  ward — it  is  quite  a  Httle  hospital — 
raised  themselves  and  watched  the  pretty 
child  with  interest  as  he  put  out  his  little 
gloved  hand  timidly  to  touch  this  strange  new 
WilHams,  lying  so  white  and  still  in  the  clean, 
'  straight  bed. 

"Speak  to  him,  sonnie!"  said  a  voice  at  his 
ear. 

37 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"  Williams ! ' '  whispered  the  child  very  low  and 
timidly.  Then,  remembering  that  he  never  used 
to  speak  to  Williams  like  that,  he  said  loudly, 
"Williams,  dear!  the  celery  is  very  good." 

Williams  opened  his  eyes,  and  when  he  saw 
Billy  a  smile  broke  over  his  face  like  the  No- 
vember sunshine  itself. 

"Didn't  I  say  as  'e  talked  sensible?"  he 
asked  of  the  world  in  general.  Then,  "So  you 
be  come  at  last,  Mazter  Billy !" 

"Tell  him  you  want  him  to  get  well !"  whis- 
pered Billy's  father. 

"I  wish  you'd  make  haste  and  come  home, 
Williams,"  Billy  shouted;  "I've  got  to  go 
walks  wiv  Nanna  nearly  every  day  now,  and 
it's  so  dull." 

"Do  ee  miss  Oi,  Mazter  Billy?" 

"'Course  I  do.  We  all  do.  Please  get  well, 
Williams!  Aren't  you  tired  of  stopping  here? 
— though  it's  very  pretty,"  he  added  hastily, 
fearing  lest  he  had  said  something  rude;  "but 
Mrs.  WilHams  is  very  lonely,  and  so  am  I." 

"I  be  main  tired,  Mazter  Billy.  I  don't 
seem  to  'ave  no  sart  o'  stren'th  in  me.  I  be 
a  hold  man " 

"There's  such  a  lot  of  chrysanthemums  in 
38 


A  Philosopher  of  the  Cotswolds 

the  drive,  Williams,  and  in  your  garden  too/' 
Billy  continued,  remembering  his  instructions 
to  "interest"  the  sick  man,  "and  Trinmiie  has 
scratched  up  such  a  lot  of  bulbs  in  the  bed  in 
the  middle  of  the  front  lawn,  and  thrown  the 
earth  all  over  the  place." 

Trimmie  was  the  autocrat's  fox-terrier,  and 
his  misdeeds  were  the  only  subject  upon  which 
Williams  ventured  to  disagree  with  that  gen- 
tleman— on  occasion  expressing  a  strong  desire 
to  thrash  "that  there  varmint  of  a  dog"  for 
sundry  scratchings  which  his  master  only  re- 
garded with  admiring  amusement. 

For  the  first  time  for  a  whole  long  week 
WiUiams  raised  his  head  quite  two  inches 
from  the  pillow,  exclaiming: 

"That  there  dog'U  'ave  to  be  beat,  scrattin' 

and  scramblin'   and  spilin'  my  garden " 

and  WiUiams  dropped  his  head  on  the  pillow 
again  with  an  emphatic  bump. 

Here  the  nurse  interfered,  and  the  autocrat, 
having  succeeded  in  rousing  the  patient  rather 
more  effectually  than  the  authorities  either 
anticipated  or  desired,  was  led  away. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  nurse  approached  his 
bedside. 

39 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"Here's  your  beef-tea,  Mr.  Williams!"  she 
almost  shouted;  "you  must  try  and  take  it." 

"Who  be  you  a-hoUerin'  at?"  growled  the 
patient.  "I'll  take  the  messy  stuff  without  so 
much  noise  about  it." 

"I  don't  beheve  the  old  image  is  half  so 
deaf  as  he  makes  out,"  whispered  the  nurse 
to  the  matron,  feeling  rather  nettled  at  this 
unexpected  retort. 

The  old  image  kept  muttering  to  himself  all 
that  day,  and  those  who  Hstened  heard  re- 
marks to  the  effect  that  there  was  no  rest  to 
be  expected  this  side  of  the  grave,  that  he  sim- 
ply couldn't  he  there  and  think  of  his  garden 
going  to  "wrack  and  re  wing,  all  along  of  a 
slippety  varmint  of  a  tarrier.  Just  let  me 
catch  him  a-scrattin'  in  my  borders,  and  I'll 
give  'im  what  for." 

The  ultimate  result  of  these  mutterings  being 
that,  in  another  week,  Williams  was  discharged 
as  convalescent,  and  by  Christmas  was  well 
enough  to  dictate  to  his  mistress  as  to  what 
greenery  she  might  cut  for  the  decoration  of 
the  house. 

"Ladies,  they  did  cum,"  said  he  to  his  wife, 
"and  did  read  in  that  there  'orspital,  but  they 
40 


A  Philosopher  of  the  Cotswolds 

did  spake  so  secret-like  and  quiet,  I  couldn't 
never  yer  what  it  were  all  about;  and  the  doc- 
tor 'e  cum,  and  passun  'e  cum,  but  I  didn't 
seem  to  take  no  sort  of  delight  in  none  of  'em. 
Then  Mazter  Billy  'e  cum,  and  did  talk  the 
most  sensiblest  of  the  lot.  .  .  .  And,  in  spite 
of  that  there  influinzy,  yer  Oi  be!" 


41 


m 


"especially  those" 


THEY  did  not  know  that  Billy  had  so  many 
friends  until  he  lay  a-dying.     Then  they 
knew. 

It  takes  some  of  us  more  than  four  years  to 
make  one  friend.  Billy  had  only  lived  four 
years  altogether,  but  ever}'  one  he  knew  was 
his  friend,  and  he  knew  every  one  in  his  little 
world. 

"I  want  some  ice  for  Master  Billy's  head !" 
said  the  parlour-maid.  "He's  that  feverish, 
doctor  says  it's  to  be  kept  on  all  the  time." 

Mr.  Stallon,  the  fishmonger,  looked  grave. 

"I  haven't  a  bit  of  ice  on  the  premises.  It's 
ordered,  but  it  won't  be  here  till  to-morrow. 
Dear!  dear!  and  to  think  as  the  little  gentle- 
man's so  bad!" 

Mr.  Stallon  was  a  stout,  seafaring-looking 
man,  with  a  short  brown  beard.  He  shook 
his  head,  and  looked  really  sorry. 

"Whatever  shall  we  do?"  cried  the  parlour- 
maid.    "Whatever  shall  we  do?" 
42 


"Especially  Those" 

"Do !"  echoed  Mr.  Stallon.  "Do !  why,  get 
some,  to  be  sure.  I'll  go  to  Farenham  for  it 
myself.  Tell  your  lady  she  shall  have  it  in 
a'  hour  or  so." 

Mr.  Stallon  owned  an  inn  as  well  as  a  fish- 
shop.  He  crossed  the  road  to  his  inn  yard; 
there  he  harnessed  his  horse  to  his  spring  cart, 
and  he  drove  to  Farenham  for  the  ice.  Billy's 
town  is  a  very  little  one,  but  Farenham,  six 
miles  off,  is  big,  and  Mr.  Stallon  got  the  ice. 
I'm  afraid  that  he  drove  furiously,  and  beat 
his  horse.  But  he  quite  forgot  to  charge  for 
the  ice,  and  no  one  ever  thanked  him  for  get- 
ting it.  He  didn't  mind,  he  was  one  of  Billy's 
friends. 

The  Earl  was  another.  The  Earl  is  young, 
fresh-coloured,  and  chubby,  and  somewhat 
lacking  in  dignity.  He  is  an  M.F.H.  for  all 
that,  and  Billy  was  wont  to  go  with  him  to 
the  kennels,  and  knew  all  the  old  hounds  by 
name. 

The  Earl  and  Billy  held  long  conversations 
on  the  subject  of  poachers.  Billy's  sympa- 
thies were  apt  to  go  with  the  poachers;  but 
that  was  the  fault  of  the  Radical  curate. 

As  for  the  curate,  he  and  Billy  were  dear 
43 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

friends.  He  would  spend  long  sunny  after- 
noons, bowling  slows,  and  twisters,  and  over- 
hands  to  Billy,  and  he  could  sing  such  charm- 
ing songs. 

One  of  Billy's  peculiarities  was  that  he  ex- 
acted songs  from  all  his  friends.  Then  he 
learnt  them  himseK,  and  sang  them  in  his 
turn.  The  curate's  favourite  song  was  "For 
it's  My  Dehght,  On  a  Shiny  Night."  It  was 
this  song  that  caused  Billy's  predilection  for 
poachers. 

The  Earl  could  sing  too.  Of  his  repertoire 
the  favourite  was — 

"She  went  and  got  married,  that  'ard-'earted  girl, 
And  it  was  not  to  a  Wicount,  and  it  was  not  to  a  Hearl." 

Here  Billy  always  interrupted,  exclaiming 
dehghtedly,  "That's  you,  you  know!"  and 
demanded  the  verse  again. 

There  was  one  friend  from  whom  Billy  ex- 
acted no  songs.  This  was  old  Williams,  the 
gardener.  He  was  a  very  good  gardener,  but 
deaf.  Billy  was  the  only  person  whom  he 
could  hear  well.  He  really  had  no  notion  of 
singing,  that  gardener.  So  he  told  Billy  tales 
in  broad  Gloucestershire  instead,  and  Billy 
44 


"Especially  Those" 

trotted  after  him,  assisting  in  all  his  horticul- 
tural operations,  and  they  loved  each  other. 

But  the  fever  had  got  a  hold  upon  Billy, 
it  was  such  a  hot  July. 

At  last  a  Sunday  came,  when  those  who 
loved  him  best  feared  that  he  could  not  last 
through  the  day.  At  morning  service  the 
curate  gave  it  out  that  "the  prayers  of  the 
congregation  are  desired  for  WiUiam  War- 
grave  Ainger";  then  he  paused,  and  with  a 
ring  of  supplication  in  his  voice,  which  startled 
the  Hstening  people,  said,  "little  Billy  Ainger, 
whom  we  love — who  Hes  grievously  sick." 

"WiUiam  Wargrave  Ainger"  had  fallen  on 
inattentive  ears,  but  the  familiar  name  struck 
home,  and  the  congregation  prayed. 

In  the  pause  which  followed  the  words 
"especially  those  for  whom  oiu*  prayers  are 
desired,"  the  deaf  gardener's  voice  was  heard 
to  say  "Amen";  but  no  one  smiled  at  him 
that  Sunday. 

The  Earl  had  no  surpHce  to  take  off,  so  he 
reached  Billy's  house  first;  but  the  curate 
caught  him  at  the  drive  gate,  for  the  curate 
ran. 

There  was  no  sound  in  the  house  but  the 
45 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

voice  of  Billy's  mother,  singing  to  him,  over 
and  over  again,  the  same  old  nursery  rhyme. 
It  ran: 

"O  do  not  come,  but  go  away — 
Away  with  your  eyes  that  peep; 
O  do  not  come  to  Billy's  house. 
For  Billy  is  going  to  sleep." 

It  has  a  quaint  Hlting  tune,  and  Billy  loved 
it,  but  he  could  not  sleep. 

His  father  came  down  to  the  Earl  and  the 
curate,  and  silently  they  followed  him  up  into 
the  darkened  nursery.  Billy  smiled  when  he 
saw  them.    He  could  not  speak,  he  was  so  tired. 

His  mother  knelt  at  the  head  of  his  bed, 
singing  tirelessly.  His  father  knelt  down  at 
the  other  side,  devouring  the  thin,  flushed, 
httle  face  with  loving,  sorrowful  eyes.  The 
curate  knelt  down  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and 
the  Earl,  who  made  no  attempt  to  wipe  the 
tears  from  off  his  ruddy  cheeks,  knelt  by  a 
chair.  By  the  darkened  window  sat  the  pretty 
hospital  nurse,  in  her  white  cap  and  apron. 

"0  do  not  come  to  Billy's  house,"  the 
mother's  voice  went  on.  Then  she  sang  more 
softly,  and  suddenly  there  was  silence: 

Billy  had  gone  to  sleep. 
46 


"Especially  Those" 

The  drive  gate  cHcked,  a  quick  step  sounded 
on  the  gravel  outside.  It  was  the  doctor. 
He  came  hastily  into  the  room,  and,  stepping 
softly  over  to  Billy's  mother,  lifted  her  up, 
and  set  her  in  a  chair. 

He  took  her  place,  laying  his  hand  on  the 
child's  pulse,  and  on  his  forehead.  Then  he 
said  in  a  whisper,  "He'll  do,  he's  gone  to 
sleep." 

The  three  men  rose  from  their  knees,  as 
Billy's  mother  fell  on  hers,  with  the  first 
tears  she  had  shed,  in  all  that  weary  week. 

They  followed  the  doctor  out  of  the  room, 
and  crept  downstairs  into  the  hall.  The  doc- 
tor pushed  Billy's  father  into  the  dining-room, 
saying,  "You  must  give  me  some  lunch.  I 
want  to  see  the  little  chap  again,  in  twenty 
minutes  or  so — what  the  deuce  was  the  matter 
with  you  all?    Did  you  think  he  was  dead?" 

"/  did,"  said  the  Earl,  in  an  awestruck 
whisper. 

"Go  away!"  said  the  doctor  testily;  "go 
away,  you  long-faced  limatics,  and  leave  us 
in  peace!" 

The  two  young  men  turned  and  went  into 
the  drive,  where  they  found  WiUiams,  waiting 

47 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

for  news.  The  Earl  went  up  to  the  old  man, 
and  put  his  mouth  to  his  ear,  saying  loudly, 
and  with  pauses  between  each  word — "He — 
is  better — he's  asleep — the  doctor — says — he'll 
do." 

Williams  blew  his  nose  noisily,  in  a  large 
red  handkerchief;  then  said  huskily,  "The 
Lard  be  praised!  your  lardship,  the  Lard  be 
praised!" 

Then  the  Earl  and  Williams  shook  hands; 
and  the  curate  and  Williams  shook  hands. 
The  two  young  men  shut  the  gate  softly,  and 
went  down  the  road. 

The  curate  went  to  lunch  with  the  Earl. 
They  had  champagne,  and  the  Earl  grew 
frivolous,  as  his  manner  is;  he  has  not  much 
dignity,  and  he  and  the  curate  are  old  friends, 
for  they  were  at  Eton  and  "the  House"  to- 
gether. 

"I  say,  old  chap!"  said  the  Earl  confiden- 
tially, "you  were  jolly  careful  that  the  Al- 
mighty should  make  no  mistake,  this  morning." 

The  curate  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  and 

with  more  than  a  reminiscence  of  their  college 

tutor  in  his  manner,  remarked,  "In  matters 

of  importance,  it  is  well  to  be  strictly  accurate." 

48 


IV 

AT    BLUE    HOUSE    LOCK 

THE  life  of  Dorcas  Heaven,  who  keeps  the 
Blue  House  Lock,  is  somewhat  lonely 
and  monotonous.  Her  post  is  more  or  less  of 
a  sinecure,  for  but  few  barges  pass  along  that 
bit  of  the  canal.  Indeed,  the  canal  itself, 
though  winding  through  the  prettiest  bit  of 
country  in  the  neighbourhood,  is  only  navi- 
gable during  a  wet  season.  After  a  drought 
it  grows  so  shallow  that  cows  are  wont  to 
stand  derisively  in  the  very  middle  of  it,  cool- 
ing their  legs. 

Elijah,  husband  of  Dorcas,  is  a  labourer  on 
a  farm  some  two  miles  off. 

As  the  path  alongside  the  canal  leads  to 
nowhere  in  particular,  there  is  not  much 
traffic;  but  when  a  barge  does  come,  Dorcas 
"bustles  her  about  sharpish,"  and  there  is  a 
great  to-do.  She  looks  upon  herself  as  more 
or  less  the  hostess  of  the  occupants  of  the 
barge.  "They  change  the  weather  and  pass 
49 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

the  time  of  day/'  their  destination  and  their 
business  are  exhaustively  discussed,  and  when 
at  length  stillness  settles  down  over  the  Blue 
House,  when  there  is  no  sound  but  the  cry  of 
a  peewit  or  the  rustle  of  a  water-rat  in  the 
rushes,  Dorcas  fetches  a  chair  into  the  door- 
way and  sinks  upon  it,  exclaiming,  "Law! 
what  a  paladum  it  have  been,  to  be  sure !" 

On  Sunday  mornings  Dorcas  does  not  go  to 
church,  for  "Elijah  do  Hke  a  bit  o'  meat  of  a 
Sunday,"  and  Dorcas  is  a  good  wife  first  and 
a  good  churchwoman  second.  She  therefore 
defers  her  attendance  until  evening,  when 
EHjah  accompanies  her.  While  the  bit  o' 
meat  is  in  course  of  preparation  he  strolls 
round  for  "a  bit  of  a  talk"  with  one  "Ethni 
Harman,  licensed  to  sell  beer  and  tobacco," 
whose  house  of  cheer  lies  on  the  outskirts  of 
the  town,  and  where  the  very  latest  election- 
eering news  is  to  be  had.  Elijah  has  been 
heard  to  express  an  opinion  to  the  effect  that 
"there  ain't  no  'arm  in  going  to  church  twice, 
for  them  as  it  suits,  but  once,  along  of  my 
missus,  be  enough  for  I." 

Had  it  been  in  Elijah's  nature  to  be  aston- 
ished at  anything,  he  would  have  felt  some 
50 


At  Blue  House  Lock 

surprise  at  the  amiability  with  which  Dorcas 
had  lately  speeded  him  on  his  way  to  "The 
Cat  and  Compasses"  on  Sunday  mornings. 
She  had  at  one  time  been  rather  given  to  in- 
convenient suggestions  as  that  "them  peas 
want  sticking,  and  the  salery  be  ready  for 
banking,"  when  EHjah  would  fain  have  been 
sunning  himself  upon  the  bench  outside  Ethni 
Harman's  hospitable  door,  a  mug  of  cider  and 
like-minded  friend  beside  him.  He  usually 
fell  in  with  his  wife's  suggestions,  for  he  was 
a  man  who  loved  a  quiet  life,  and  Dorcas — 
when  annoyed  on  Sunday — ^was  apt  to  cany 
on  her  domestic  duties  with  unnecessary  vig- 
om*  far  into  the  night  on  Monday. 

The  fact  was  that,  of  late,  Simday  morn- 
ings had  become  for  Dorcas  the  comer-stone 
of  her  week,  and  in  this  wise:  it  did  not  as  a 
rule  take  long  to  get  Elijah's  dinner  under 
way;  this  done,  Dorcas  would  take  her  chair 
into  the  doorway,  and  read  her  Bible.  She 
generally  chose  the  Book  of  Revelation,  care- 
fully forming  the  words  with  her  lips  and  follow- 
ing each  with  gnarled  and  work-worn  forefin- 
ger. With  Dorcas,  as  with  many  people  whose 
lives  are  somewhat  hard  and  monotonous, 
61 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

the  prospect  of  a  suite  of  rooms  in  one  of  the 
many  mansions  was  extremely  pleasant.  More- 
over, the  Cotswold  peasant  dearly  loves  any 
form  of  spectacle,  and  although  Dorcas  could 
not  pronounce,  far  less  understand,  many  of 
the  words  she  met  with,  there  was  a  sense  of 
pageant  all  around  her  as  she  read;  while  her 
appreciation  of  the  city  which  has  "no  need  of 
the  sun,  neither  of  the  moon  to  shine  in  it," 
was  as  purely  sensuous  as  that  of  any  disciple 
of  Wagner  himself. 

"And  now,  a  Httle  wind  and  shy"  scattered 
the  apple-blossoms  over  the  path,  and  the 
Sunday  silence  was  broken  by  a  clear  child- 
voice.  To  Dorcas  such  soimd  was  as  the  skirl 
of  the  pipes  to  a  Highlander  in  a  far  country; 
her  heart  beat  quick  and  her  cheeks  grew  red- 
der, and  she  rushed  out  to  see  who  "was 
a-comin'";  for  Dorcas  had  "put  away  four" 
in  the  "cemetrary"  on  the  Fletborough  road, 
and  one  had  lived  to  be  four  years  old.  Be- 
sides, to  let  any  one  pass  the  Blue  House  with- 
out "givin'  of  'em  good-day!"  was  a  thing  she 
had  never  done — "not  once  in  twenty  year." 
So  she  laid  her  Bible  on  the  chair,  covering 
it  with  a  clean  white  handkerchief,  and  crossed 
52 


At  Blue  House  Lock 

the  few  feet  of  garden  which  lay  between  her 
cottage  and  the  towing-path. 

A  sturdy  httle  boy,  in  reefer  coat  and  muffin 
cap,  with  round,  fresh  Httle  face,  and  cheeks 
pink  as  the  petals  of  the  apple-blossom  nearest 
the  calyx,  danced  with  excitement  on  the  bank 
as  he  watched  his  father  gathering  some  yellow 
"flags"  which  grew  at  the  water's  edge.  The 
attendant  father — ^parents  and  such  were  always 
a  secondary  consideration  with  Dorcas — was 
not  very  successful,  as  the  ground  was  soft  and 
slippery. 

"Is  it  wet  down  there,  dad?  Can  I  come? 
Oh,  get  that  big  one  just  over  there!  Won't 
muth  be  pleased?  What  dirty  boots  you'll 
have !  Shall  I  hold  your  stick  for  you  to  cling 
on  to?" 

Then  he  noticed  Dorcas.  "  Good-morning ! ' ' 
said  he  with  gay  courtesy.  "Isn't  it  a  fine 
May  morning?" 

"It  be  that  siu-ely,  Httle  master!"  answered 
Dorcas  in  high  deHght.  Then  "the  Httle 
gentleman's  dada" — he  never  achieved  a  sep- 
arate identity  in  the  mind  of  Dorcas — scram- 
bled up  from  the  s\\'amp  in  which  he  had 
been  standing.  He,  too,  proved  most  approach- 
53 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

able,  and  she  learned  that  the  youthful  poten- 
tate in  the  reefer  jacket  had  never  walked  so 
far  before,  that  the  "scroped  out  old  quarry" 
just  beyond  the  Blue  House  was  his  destina- 
tion, and  that  he  would  probably  come  again 
next  Sunday. 

He  came  every  Sunday  morning  all  through 
that  summer,  and  always  with  his  dad.  Some- 
times they  went  tapping  for  fossils  in  the  dis- 
used quarry,  sometimes  they  came  with  but- 
terfly-nets and  caught  "Tortoiseshells"  and 
"Wall-Browns,"  and  upon  one  great  occasion 
a  "Fritillary."  But  whatever  they  sought  or 
whatever  they  caught,  Dorcas  was  always,  as 
who  should  say,  "in  at  the  death,"  and  shared 
the  excitement  and  the  triimiph  with  them. 

The  little  gentleman  was  very  friendly — a 
child  is  quick  to  recognise  an  admirer  as  any 
pretty  woman — and  it  is  possible  that  the 
attendant  father  understood  and  indulged  the 
childless  woman's  craving  for  a  child's  affec- 
tion. Sometimes  Dorcas  felt  a  qualm  of  con- 
science, and  wondered  whether  her  adored 
young  gentleman  ought  not  rather  to  be  in 
church  these  sunny  Sunday  mornings;  though 
had  he  been  in  church  he  certainly  could  have 
54 


At  Blue  House  Lock 

been  nowhere  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
Blue  House.  But  she  was  comforted  when  she 
heard  that  he  went  with  his  mother  to  a  chil- 
dren's service  in  the  afternoon.  Henceforth 
she  gave  hei-self  up  to  the  study  of  natural 
history  and  the  worship  of  her  dear  "Httle 
gentleman"  with  a  light  heart. 

Even  in  winter  he  sometimes  came  "of  a 
fine  Sunday/'  and  Dorcas  would  spend  many 
hours  of  the  following  week  vainly  trying  to 
determine  whether  she  admired  him  most  in 
a  sailor  suit,  or  in  the  breeches  and  gaiters  of 
which  he  was  so  proud.  One  never-to-be- 
forgotten  day  the  rain  came  down  in  torrents 
just  as  her  sultan  and  his  grand  vizier  reached 
the  Blue  House.  They  took  shelter  with  Dor- 
cas, and  the  sultan  was  graciously  pleased  to 
be  lifted  up  that  he  might  reach  a  certain  mug 
from  the  top  shelf  of  the  dresser — a  mug  which 
had  belonged  to  "'im  as  wer  gone."  Dorcas 
made  gingerbread  cats  and  ducks,  and  her 
artistic  efforts  went  so  far  as  to  attempt  a  king 
"with  a  crown  upon  'is  'ead."  After  regaling 
himself  with  these  delicacies  her  sultan  would 
hold  up  a  rosy  face,  ornamented  by  sundry 
sticky  streaks,  to  be  kissed  in  farewell;  and 
55 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

when  she  had  watched  him  round  the  bend  of 
the  canal  her  eyes  would  grow  dim,  and  she 
would  go  back  to  the  Book  of  Revelation,  mur- 
muring another  favourite  quotation  to  herself, 
"The  Lard  gave  and  the  Lard  'ave  took  away. 
Blessed  be  the  name  of  the  Lard." 

Of  course  the  many  charms  of  the  "little 
gentleman"  were  duly  reported  to  Elijah,  and 
the  residence  of  Ethni  Harman  took  on  a  re- 
flected glory  from  the  fact  that  it  was  but  a 
stone's  throw  from  that  of  her  sultan. 

It  was  a  wet  summer,  and  there  came  four 
wet  Sundays  one  after  the  other.  Vainly  did 
Dorcas  try  to  fix  her  mind  on  the  streets  of 
jasper,  while  all  the  time  she  was  straining  her 
ears  for  the  sound  of  the  little  voice  that  never 
chimed  into  the  stillness.  She  grew  to  hate 
the  patter  of  the  rain  on  the  path  outside; 
even  the  fact  that  the  canal,  for  once,  was  full, 
and  three  barges  passed  in  one  week,  did  not 
console  her.  The  gingerbread  animals  grew 
stale  and  crumbly  between  two  plates,  and  the 
gorgeous  mug,  "A  Present  from  Fairford,"  was 
put  back  on  the  top  shelf  of  the  dresser  again. 

The  weather  changed,  and  there  came  a 
lovely  Sunday.  Elijah  set  off  to  "The  Cat  and 
56 


At  Blue  House  Lock 

Compasses"  as  usual;  Dorcas  bustled  about 
with  a  pleasant  sense  of  expectation  and  went 
and  stood  on  the  towing-path,  her  eyes  fixed 
on  the  distant  bridge.  Some  boys  went  by 
to  bathe  beyond  the  second  bend,  with  laugh- 
ter and  shouting.  Then  the  only  sound  was 
the  hum  of  bees  settled  on  the  piuple  scabious 
growing  a-top  the  crumbling  Cotswold  wall. 

On  Monday  Dorcas  could  bear  it  no  longer. 
"I  be  that  tewey  and  narvous,  I  don't  know 
what  I  be  about,"  she  remarked,  as  she  locked 
the  door  of  the  Blue  House  and  hid  the  key 
under  the  mat.  Should  a  barge  come — ^well, 
it  must  manage  somehow !  Barges  were  never 
in  a  hurry.  She  had  come  to  a  momentous 
decision.  She  was  going  to  inquire  after  her 
"Httle  gentleman."  Whether  he  was  ill  or 
gone  for  a  hoHday,  or  was  merely  forgetful, 
she  would  find  out  and  end  this  dreadful  sus- 
pense. She  was  a  very  simple-minded  woman, 
but  in  her  heart  of  hearts  she  felt  a  Httle  sore 
with  the  grand  vizier,  for  she  had  a  notion  that 
he  was  by  no  means  ignorant  of  what  these 
Sunday  visits  meant  to  her. 

"I  beHeve  'e'd  'ave  come  afore  this  if  'e'd 
a'  been  let.  'A  be  that  meek-'earted  'a  would- 
57 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

n't  'urt  a  vloi,  let  alone  a  'oman/'  she  said  to 
herself  with  a  half  sob.  She  was  convinced 
that  her  sultan  could  not  forget  so  utterly 
the  humblest  of  his  slaves.  So  she  put  on 
her  best  clothes  and  tight  elastic-sided  boots, 
with  lots  of  little  white  buttons  adorning  the 
fronts. 

At  the  Blue  House,  Dorcas  was  never  either 
self-conscious  or  shy;  but  when  she  reached 
her  sultan's  palace,  having  timidly  pushed  open 
the  drive  gate,  she  became  aware  that  the  new 
boots  creaked  horribly,  and  that  perspiration 
was  dropping  from  her  eyebrows  into  her  eyes. 
Having  mopped  her  face,  and  generally  pulled 
herself  together,  she  managed  to  reach  the 
front  door,  though  her  knees  trembled,  and  her 
heart  fluttered  like  a  caged  bird. 

Never  was  such  a  noisy  bell!  It  clanged 
and  echoed  in  most  alarming  fashion;  she 
wished  that  the  stone  steps  would  open  and 
swallow  her  up.  What  would  they  think  of 
her  for  daring  to  make  such  a  clatter?  Be- 
sides— and  at  the  dreadful  thought  she  nearly 
cried  out — of  course  she  ought  to  have  gone 
to  the  back  door. 

For  full  five  minutes  she  stood  on  the  steps, 
58 


At  Blue  House  Lock 

listening  for  any  sound  inside  the  house,  but 
all  was  perfectly  quiet.  She  turned  and  went 
into  the  drive,  meaning  to  go  round  to  the 
back  door,  when  it  occurred  to  her  to  look 
back  at  the  house;  she  had  been  far  too  ner- 
vous to  do  so  as  she  came  in.  The  lower 
windows  were  shuttered,  and  all  the  blinds 
were  down. 

They  had  gone  then!  and  it  was  empty. 
"And  they  never  didn't  bring  'im  for  to  say 
good-bye  to  me." 

Life's  little  tragedies  generally  happen  to 
the  lonely.  What  in  a  full  and  happy  life 
ranks  but  as  an  episode,  becomes  an  epoch 
in  the  sad-coloured  days  of  lean  monotony. 
Dorcas  wiped  her  eyes  more  than  once,  on  her 
way  home,  and  went  heavily  for  many  days. 
Elijah  saw  that  she  was  fretting,  and  tried  to 
distract  her  by  news  from  the  town,  and  occa- 
sional suggestions  that  she  should  go  over 
"and  see  sister-law"  in  an  adjacent  village; 
but  beyond  her  necessary  journeys  to  the  town 
to  buy  such  stores  as  she  could  afford,  Dorcas 
never  left  home.  She  scrubbed  the  kitchen 
table  till  she  grudged  to  sully  its  whiteness  by 
so  much  as  a  yellow  bowl,  and  she  made  her- 
59 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

self  a  warm  new  winter  dress,  but,  for  all  her 
industry,  the  time  hung  heavy  on  her  hands, 
and  she  never  forgot  her  "little  gentleman." 
The  wet  season  was  followed  by  an  Indian 
summer  of  exceptional  beauty.  "The  spirit 
of  October,  mild  and  boon,"  was  in  the  air; 
the  tottering  Cotswold  wall,  which  laid  its 
wayward  length  on  the  far  side  of  the  footway, 
was  covered  by  sprays  of  crimson  blackberry, 
mingled  with  the  fluffy  greyness  of  "old  man's 
beard."  Dorcas  no  longer  stared  hungrily 
down  the  towing-path  on  Sunday  morning, 
but  she  did  not  forget;  and,  in  token  of  her  re- 
membrance, the  twenty-first  chapter  of  the 
Book  of  Revelation  was  marked  in  her  Bible 
by  a  little  woollen  glove  with  a  large  hole  in 
the  thumb.  Her  sultan  had  dropped  it  dur- 
ing his  last  visit. 

The  birds  sang  as  though  it  were  spring,  and 
Dorcas  began  to  read  aloud  to  herself  to  keep 
her  thoughts  from  wandering.  "And  God 
shall  wipe  away  all  tears  from  their  eyes," 
whispered  the  kind  Gloucestershire  voice, 
when  suddenly,  above  the  triumphant  voices 
of  the  birds,  above  the  soft  wash  of  the  water 
among  the  yellowing  reeds,  rang  that  clear 
60 


At  Blue  House  Lock 

sound  for  which  the  soul  of  Dorcas  had  hun- 
gered so  cruelly. 

"I  wonder  if  the  lady  at  the  Blue  House 
will  know  me  again,  dad !" 

•  •  •  •  • 

It  seemed  as  though  the  grand  vizier  had 
not  been  so  greatly  to  blame  after  all.  He  had 
been  suddenly  called  away  to  the  north  of 
Scotland;  and  although  he  had  left  directions 
that  before  the  sultan  and  the  household  fol- 
lowed him  that  potentate  was  to  be  taken  to 
say  good-bye  "to  the  lady  at  the  Blue  House/* 
although  the  sultan  himself  had  repeatedly 
suggested  the  propriety  of  such  a  pilgrimage, 
his  niu^e  had  always  considered  the  road  too 
muddy. 

"I  thought,  sir,  as  you  was  all  gone  fur  good 
and  all,"  said  Dorcas,  with  a  catch  in  her  voice; 
"and  I  were  that  taken  to  I  never  made  no 
inquiries. " 

On  his  way  home  the  grand  vizier  was  rather 
silent.  Once  or  twice  he  made  a  queer  little 
face,  and  seemed  to  swallow  something  in  his 
throat.  At  last  he  quoted,  but  not  to  the 
sultan,  "By  heavens,  it  is  pitiful,  the  bootless 
love  of  women  for  children  in  Vanity  Fair." 
61 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

The  rosy-faced  child,  who  had  been  wondering 
why  the  usual  Sunday  service  of  gingerbread 
had  been  omitted,  was  rather  surprised,  but 
nevertheless  asked  curiously,  "Are  you  think- 
ing of  the  Blue  House  lady,  dad?" 

His  father  stooped  down  hastily  and  kissed 
him. 


62 


KETURAH 

ON  Mondays  the  doctor  stayed  at  the 
surgery  to  see  patients  from  two  till 
seven.  He  did  not  live  at  the  surgery,  oh, 
dear  no !  but  had  a  fine  house,  with  a  carriage 
drive  and  a  conservatory,  right  at  the  other 
end  of  the  town.  The  waiting-room  was  very 
full  on  Mondays,  people  came  from  all  parts 
to  see  the  doctor;  moreover,  it  was  market- 
day,  and  the  pursuit  of  health  could  be  com- 
bined with  that  of  business. 

It  was  getting  late,  and  only  two  people 
were  left  in  the  waiting-room — a  shabby, 
nervous-looking  woman  and  a  handsome  lad 
of  sixteen,  who  had  come  to  consult  the  doctor 
about  a  sprained  thimib.  "One  of  the  gen- 
try," thought  the  woman  to  herself,  as  she 
noted  the  trim  riding-breeches  and  the  leather 
on  his  shoulders. 

From  time  to  time  she  looked  anxiously  at 
the  clock,  clasping  and  unclasping  her  thin, 
work-worn  hands. 

63 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

A  door  banged  outside,  the  consulting-room 
bell  pealed,  signifying  that  an  interview  was 
over.  It  was  the  lad's  turn  next.  He  stretched 
his  long  legs  preparatory  to  obeying  the  ex- 
pected summons,  when  the  woman  rose  hastily 
and  came  and  stood  in  front  of  him,  saying 
eagerly,  "Sir,  will  you  let  me  go  in  out  of  my 
turn?  I  won't  keep  the  doctor  a  minute; 
it's  to  ask  him  to  come  to  my  child  who  is  very 
ill.  I've  been  away  far  too  long  as  it  is,  but 
I'd  no  one  as  I  could  send." 

"Of  course,  of  course!"  exclaimed  the  lad, 
who  had  risen  to  his  feet  when  she  first  spoke, 
looking  very  shy  and  embarrassed,  "and  I 
am  awfully  sorry,  you  know,  but  the  doctor 
will  be  sure  to  do  it  good.  He's  'A  one,' 
you  know " 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened  and  a  voice 
cried,  "Next,  please!"  and  the  little  woman, 
casting  a  grateful  look  behind  her,  hurried  into 
the  presence  of  the  doctor.  He  looked  up 
surprised  as  she  entered — ^poor  people  generally 
came  on  Thursdays. 

"Well?"  he  demanded.  With  rich  and 
poor  alike  the  doctor's  manners  were  always 
somewhat  abrupt.  He  was  saving  of  speech, 
64 


Keturah 

though  it  is  true  that  he  expanded  under  the 
smiles  of  youth  and  beauty. 

"Please,  sir,  could  you  come  and  see  my 
little  girl ?  She's  bin  ill  now  these  three  weeks; 
she  don't  get  no  better,  and  she  does  nothing 
but  cough,  and  seems  that  hot  and  restless, 
and  is  that  weak " 

"What  have  you  done?"  interrupted  the 
doctor. 

"I've  kep'  'er  in  bed  and  giv'  'er  'Dinver's 
Lung  Tonic'  My  'usband,  'e  don't  'old  with 
doctors — 'e's  a  Plymouth  Brother,  and  don't 
seek  advice " 

The  doctor  growled  out  something  about 
"nonsense,"  prefaced  by  a  somewhat  forcible 
adjective,  then  "All  right!  I'll  come.  Where 
do  you  live?" 

After  giving  her  address,  the  woman  held 
out  to  him  a  little  screw  of  paper.  He  waved 
it  aside  impatiently,  saying,  "Haven't  seen 
her  yet,"  held  the  door  open,  and  the  woman 
hurried  out. 

"I'll  come  directly,"  he  shouted  after  her. 
His  heart  was  much  softer  than  his  manners. 

"These  Plimmy  brothers  are  the  biggest 
lunatics  going,"  he  said  to  himself,  "with  their 
65 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

faith-healing  and  their  providence-mongering. 
I'd  like  to  dose  the  lot  of  them." 

The  doctor  was  not  accurate  in  his  diagno- 
sis of  the  sect  in  question,  but  in  his  own  mind 
lumped  together  every  sort  of  religious  en- 
thusiasm. 

Matthew  Moulder,  baker,  was  an  upright, 
God-fearing  man,  foreman  to  the  baker — our 
little  town  boasts  but  one.  He  turned  out 
excellent  bread;  moreover,  he  was  a  good  hus- 
band, a  conscientious  if  not  affectionate  father, 
and  a  diligent  worshipper  in  that  upper  room, 
wherein  assembled  a  handful  of  people  of 
similar  rehgious  views.  He  indulged  himself 
in  few  pleasures,  and  rather  wondered  at  the 
frivolity  of  his  neighbours,  who  took  life  with 
that  cheerful  philosophy  still  to  be  found  in 
portions  of  England  which  yet  remain  to 
justify  the  description  "merrie." 

His  wife  was  meek-hearted,  and  easily 
ruled;  she  never  questioned  his  authority,  but 
having  early  laid  to  heart  the  maxim  that 
"what  a  man  doesn't  know  can't  vex  him," 
she  was  careful  to  vex  Matthew  as  seldom  as 
possible. 

66 


Keturah 

How,  then,  did  these  two  sedate  and  re- 
spectable persons  come  by  such  a  child  as 
their  daughter  Keturah  ? 

Keturah  of  the  eK-locks  and  great  wine- 
coloured  eyes.  Keturah,  who  danced  and 
sang  and  giggled  the  live-long  day;  who 
yawned  in  sermons  and  played  "handy-pandy" 
with  herself,  while  her  father  uplifted  his  voice 
in  prayer.  Who  turned  up  in  the  hunting- 
field  when  she  ought  to  have  been  safe  in 
school,  ever  ready  to  open  gates  for  the 
"gentry,"  with  dazzling  smiles,  showing  the 
whitest  of  white  teeth,  and  with  curtsies  that 
suggested  drawing-rooms  rather  than  the  vil- 
lage lane. 

At  the  little  school,  which  she  attended 
with  a  fitfulness  perplexing  in  the  extreme  to 
the  worthy  mistress,  she  did  her  lessons  far 
better  and  more  quickly  than  anybody  else. 
There  was  no  doubt  about  it,  Keturah  was  a 
"character." 

While  there  were  but  few  people  outside 
the  row  of  cottages  where  they  lived  who  even 
knew  Matthew  and  his  wife  by  sight,  every- 
body knew  Keturah.  Always  in  mischief, 
always  en  evidence,  always  doing  the  unex- 
67 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

pected,  undaunted  by  misfortunes  and  punish- 
ments which  would  have  struck  terror  into  the 
heart  of  any  well-regulated  little  girl,  she  had, 
during  her  six  months'  residence  in  our  midst, 
attained  to  a  notoriety  which  was  apparently 
as  much  a  matter  of  indifference  to  her  as  it 
was  painful  to  her  parents.  Her  father  looked 
upon  her  as  a  cross  to  be  borne  with  Christian 
fortitude.  He  wrestled  in  prayer  on  her  be- 
half, and  on  occasion  with  Keturah  herself, 
accentuating  his  remarks  by  means  of  a  stick. 
But,  as  Thomas  Beames,  her  slave  and  shadow, 
remarked  on  one  occasion,  when  they  played 
truant  to  attend  a  meet  some  seven  miles  off, 
"They'll  beat  we  when  us  do  get  'ome;  but 
us'U  'ave  our  fun  fust." 

Thomas  was  a  round-faced,  in  no  way  ex- 
traordinarily small  boy,  who  was  dominated 
by  Keturah's  stronger  character;  he  loved  her, 
why,  he  himself  could  not  have  told.  Per- 
haps because  he  admired  the  way  she  always 
made  siu'e  of  her  "fun"  regardless  of  conse- 
quences— a  disregard  the  stranger  in  Keturah's 
case,  for  Nemesis  was  by  no  means  leaden- 
footed.  As  a  rule,  the  punishment  was  in  very 
truth  the  other  half  of  the  crime. 
68 


Keturah 

She  loved  her  mother,  and  regarded  her 
father  much  in  the  same  Hght  that  he  regarded 
her,  with  this  difference  that  she  looked  for 
no  change  in  him,  but  with  a  philosophy  as 
pagan  as  the  rest  of  her  conduct  accepted  his 
existence  as  a  necessary  evil.  Indeed,  had 
Matthew  but  known  it,  she  extracted  consider- 
able "fim"  out  of  circumventing  him. 

But  Keturah  had  fallen  on  evil  days.  A 
fishing  expedition,  during  which  she  tumbled 
into  the  canal,  and  after  which  she  walked 
about  till  she  was,  as  she  put  it,  "moderate 
dry" — "at  least  not  to  notice" — ^had  ended 
in  the  mysterious  illness  to  which  the  doctor 
had  just  been  called. 

Matthew  Moulder  had  gone  that  evening 
to  a  prayer-meeting  in  a  neighbouring  village, 
where  he  would  stay  the  night  with  a  hos- 
pitable brother;  this  fact,  taken  together  with 
the  fact  that  Keturah  seemed  most  alarmingly 
ill,  had  given  her  mother  the  courage  to  call  in 
the  doctor. 

He  had  seen  Keturah,  had  expressed  him- 
self with  his  customary  vigour  as  to  the  im- 
becihty  of  people  who  could  treat  a  case  of 
acute  pneumonia  with  "Dinver's  Lung  Tonic" 
69 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

for  sole  remedy;  and  now  he  had  returned  to 
the  little  bedroom  to  have  a  final  look  at  the 
child. 

She  was  too  weak  to  raise  herself  on  her 
elbow,  but  she  turned  her  head  on  the  doctor's 
entrance.  "Shall  I  go  to  hell?"  she  asked, 
devouring  his  face  with  her  great  fever-bright 
eyes. 

The  doctor  started.  She  had  not  volim- 
teered  any  remark  before. 

"God  bless  my  soul,  no!"  he  exclaimed. 
"You'll  go  to  Weston-super-Mare  when  you're 
well  enough." 

Keturah  shook  her  head.  "But  if  I  don't 
getweU?    ShaUIgotoheU?" 

Theology  is  not  one  of  the  doctor's  strong 
points.  Being  as  a  rule  much  concerned  with 
the  treatment  of  the  body,  he  expresses  him- 
self with  dijffidence  regarding  the  ultimate 
fate  of  the  soul.  But  on  this  occasion  he 
shook  his  head  vigorously,  holding  the  hot 
thin  little  hand  in  a  firm  comforting  clasp. 
"You  must  ask  a  parson  about  these  things, 
my  dear,  but  I  am  quite  sure  that  no  httle 
girls  go — but  you  are  going  to  get  well — 
cheer  up!    Eh?" 

70 


Keturah 

"Could  I  ast  the  young  gentleman  parson 
wot  plays  cricket?"  Keturah's  voice  was 
hoarse  and  eager. 

"The  very  man — couldn't  do  better.  I'll 
send  him  round  as  I  go  home/'  and  the  doc- 
tor turned  to  go.  He  hurried  down  the  nar- 
row stairs,  but  stopped  at  the  front  door  to 
call  back  into  the  house,  "She's  to  Uve  in  poul- 
tices, mind !    Live  in  'em." 

He  stopped  at  the  curate's  lodgings  as  he 
drove  home,  and  went  right  in,  to  find  the 
cleric  in  question  resting  his  slippered  feet 
upon  the  chimney-piece,  while  he  smoked  and 
read  the  evening  paper. 

"There's  a  kid  down  with  pnemnonia  in 
the  Waterlow  Cottages,  and  she  fancies  she's 
going  to  hell.  She'd  like  to  see  you,  so  I 
said  I'd  send  you.  Her  people  are  Plymouth 
Rocks,  or  some  such  thing.  She's  a  queer 
little  soul — dying,  I  fear." 

"It  can't  be  Keturah?"  exclaimed  the 
curate,  swinging  his  feet  off  the  mantelpiece 
and  standing  up  on  his  long  legs. 

"I  believe  that  is  the  creature's  name." 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  let  Keturah  die!  She's 
a  genius!" 

71 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"She  may  be  a  genius,"  said  the  doctor 
grimly,  "but  her  people  are  the  balliest  luna- 
tics in  creation,  and  I  rather  fancy  that  geniuses 
are  just  as  likely  to  die  of  neglect  as  other 

folk "    But  the  curate  had  not  waited  for 

the  rest  of  the  sentence.  He  seized  his  hat  and 
ran  into  the  street,  his  slippers  (down  at  the 
heel)  going  flip,  flop,  on  the  wet  pavement  as 
he  ran. 

"He's  a  good  chap,"  murmm-ed  the  doctor 
as  he  climbed  into  his  dog-cart.  "He's  a 
devihsh  good  chap." 

He  went  to  see  Keturah  again  that  night, 
and  found  that  his  instructions  had  been  car- 
ried out  to  the  letter.  He  also  found  the  curate 
there,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  assisting  Mrs. 
Moulder  to  make  poultices.  He  often  does 
such  things.  His  people  look  upon  it  as  an 
amiable  eccentricity.  "'E's  a  curus  gent," 
they  say.     "'E'U  timi  'is  'and  to  hanythink." 

He  turned  his  hand  to  the  nursing  of  Ke- 
turah with  such  success  that  two  days  later 
the  doctor  said,  "She  is  better,  but  weak  as  a 
kitten.  She  must  have  brandy.  You  must 
watch  for  the  grey  look  and  give  it  her  then." 

"  Oh,  sir ! "  exclaimed  poor  Mrs.  Moulder,  who, 
72 


Keturah 

since  the  invasion  of  the  curate,  could  not 
call  her  soul  her  own,  "Oh,  sir,  I  daren't. 
My  'usband  wouldn't  'ave  it  in  the  'ouse. 
'E's  tee— total,  'e  is " 

"Tell  him  it  is  medicine,"  said  the  doctor 
shortly.  "She  must  have  it,  and  here  it  is. 
Give  it  her  in  milk  like  this !"  and  suiting  the 
action  to  the  word,  he  measured  out  something 
into  a  tea-cup.  Something  that  had  a  most 
unmistakable  smell. 

Keturah  drank  it,  and  her  ashy  cheeks 
grew  a  shade  less  grey.  Then  she  turned  to 
the  doctor,  with  one  of  her  dazzling  smiles. 
"I  don't  think  much  on  the  taste  of  it,  but" 
— ^with  immense  conviction — "it  do  make  you 
feel  so  cheerful-like,  about  the  knees." 

Her  mother  wrung  her  hands,  but  the 
doctor  chuckled,  and,  placing  on  the  table 
the  innocent-looking  medicine  bottle  he  had 
produced  from  his  pocket,  nodded  at  it,  re- 
marking, "Every  time  she  looks  so  grey, 
mind!" 

Mrs.  Moulder  burnt  brown  paper  in  the  bed- 
room, for  Matthew  came  home  at  five.  She 
dared  not  pour  the  accursed  stuff  away,  for  the 
doctor  and  the  curate  between  them  had  fright- 

73 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

ened  her  out  of  her  wits,  by  threatening  legal 
proceedings  if  Keturah  were  in  any  way  neg- 
lected. She  had  been  obliged  to  confess  to 
the  visits  of  the  doctor,  who  might  fly  in  at  any 
moment  when  Matthew  was  at  home.  But 
she  had  not  felt  in  any  way  called  upon  to  tell 
her  husband  that  the  curate  had  sat  up  with 
Keturah  the  whole  night  that  he  was  away, 
helping  her  poultice,  and  allajdng  the  child's 
fears  as  to  eternal  punishment  so  successfully 
that  she  fell  asleep.  It  was  therefore  a  shock 
to  Matthew,  on  his  return  to  tea  that  afternoon, 
to  hear  an  undoubtedly  clerical  voice,  ap- 
parently reading  to  Keturah. 

The  house  was  perfectly  quiet,  though  there 
were  movements  in  the  back  kitchen,  showing 
the  whereabouts  of  Mrs.  Moulder.  He  stood 
at  the  foot  of  the  little  narrow  staircase  and 
listened,  fully  prepared  to  find  some  taint  of 
ritualism  in  the  curate's  ministrations.  He 
had  come  to  make  a  convert  of  Keturah,  of 
that  he  was  sure;  was  there  not  an  office — 
Matthew  almost  licked  his  lips  over  the  word 
"oflice" — in  the  Book  of  Common  Prayer 
especially  adapted  to  the  visiting  of  the  sick? 
All  the  Protestant  in  him  rose  in  rebellion. 
74 


Keturah 

He  would  be  calm,  but  he  would  convict  this 
meddling  priest  out  of  his  own  mouth.  Then 
with  the  dignified  strength  bom  of  a  just  in- 
dignation bid  him  begone ! 

The  bedroom  door  stood  open,  and  he  heard 
Keturah's  weak  httle  voice  saying,  "Tell  it 
again !    I  Hke  it." 

Matthew  braced  himself  to  listen,  and  this 
was  what  he  heard: — 


"We  built  a  ship  upon  the  stairs, 
All  made  of  the  back  bedroom  chairs. 
And  filled  it  full  of  sofa  pillows. 
To  go  a-sailing  on  the  billows. 

"We  took  a  saw  and  several  nails. 
And  water  in  the  nursery  pails; 
And  Tom  said,  'Let  us  also  take 
An  apple  and  a  slice  of  cake;* — 
Which  was  enough  for  Tom  and  me 
To  go  arsailing  on,  till  tea. 

"We  sailed  along  for  days  and  days. 
And  had  the  very  best  of  plays; 
But  Tom  fell  out  and  hurt  his  knee. 
So  there  was  no  one  left  but  me." 


"So  there  was  no  one  left  but  me,"  repeated 
the  weak  child-voice.    Matthew  rose  from  the 
third  stair  from  the  bottom,  where  he  had  been 
75 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

sitting,  and  stumbled  somewhat  blindly  into 
the  parlour,  where  he  sat  down  on  the  slippery 
horse-hair  sofa.  He  cleared  his  throat  and 
blew  his  nose,  and  there  was  an  expression  on 
his  face  which  was  seldom  seen  there. 

"And  ther'  was  no  one  left  but  me."  The 
forlorn  weak  voice  repeating  that  moved  him 
strangely.  Keturah  was  the  last  of  the  chil- 
dren. There  had  been  six  babies  before  Ke- 
turah, and  none  had  Hved  beyond  babyhood. 
At  that  moment  he  forgot  how  naughty  she 
was,  how  unregenerate !  He  only  remembered 
that  she  used  to  lay  her  baby  face  against  his, 
and  that  she  said  "dada"  the  very  first  word 
she  spoke. 

A  hundred  pretty  scenes  of  her  first  years 
flashed  into  his  recollection.  His  suspicions 
of  the  curate  were  forgotten,  and  in  their 
place  came  cold-handed  fear  to  fill  his  heart 
with  the  dread  that  Keturah  might  not  get 
well. 

After  all,   one  honest   man   can   recognise 

another,  whether  he  wear  an  M.B.  waistcoat 

or  a  baker's  apron.    Anyhow,  the  curate  so 

far  won  upon  Matthew  Moulder  that  he  per- 

76 


Keturah 

suaded  him  to  allow  the  district  nurse  to  be 
sent  to  sit  up  with  Keturah  till  she  was  "round 
the  comer,"  and  that  the  nurse  might  keep  a 
sharp  look  out  for  the  recurrence  of  "the  grey 
look." 

As  Keturah  grew  better,  Matthew  made, 
with  his  own  hands,  and  at  the  instigation  of 
the  curate,  a  whole  series  of  fantastic  Httle 
loaves  that  she  might  the  better  "fancy  her 
tea." 

"My  dada  don't  say  much,  but  I  knows 
now  that  'e  do  like  me,"  said  Keturah,  in  a 
burst  of  confidence  to  Thomas  Beames,  and 
Thomas,  with  that  caution  for  which  the 
Cotswold  folk  are  justly  famed,  replied — 

"Mebbe  'e  do.    But  folks  when  they  be 

growed  up  be  oncommon  akard  times." 
•  •  •  •  * 

"As  for  that  there  doctor,"  said  Mrs.  Moulder 
to  a  bosom  friend,  "'e's  the  most  commanding- 
est  gent  I  ever  see.  But  'e  do  get  'is  own  way. 
'E  and  that  curie  between  them  come  over 
Matthew  something  wonderful;  they  flaunted 
their  brandy  in  'is  very  face,  and  'e  never  said 
nothink.  They  giv'  'er  champang  one  night, 
as  she  was  so  low,  an'  'e  hopened  the  bottle 
77 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

'imself.  But  I  will  say  this  for  'em,  they  al- 
ways says  to  Keturah,  when  they  giv'  'er  them 
liquors,  'Now,  remember,  you're  never  to  tech 
this  when  you  be  got  well.  You're  to  be  a  tea- 
totaller  like  your  dada.'  An'  Matthew,  'e 
took  'er  to  Weston  'is  own  self.  'E  do  seem 
more  set  up  about  Keturah  than  'e  was.  But, 
mark  my  words,  if  you  wants  to  call  your 
'ouse  yoiu-  own,  don't  you  let  that  there  doctor 
inside  of  it,  that's  all." 

Curiously  enough,  it  was  Matthew  Moulder 
who  was  grateful  to  the  doctor. 


78 


VI 

MRS.    cushion's    children 

SHE  was  rather  like  her  name,  for  she 
seemed  specially  created  to  make  life  easier 
for  other  people. 

A  short,  comfortably  stout,  elderly  woman, 
with  a  romid,  rosy  face  and  kind  blue  eyes 
beaming  behind  steel-rimmed  spectacles.  On 
Sundays  the  spectacles  had  gold  rims  and 
were  never  seen  on  any  other  day. 

To  be  taken  as  a  lodger  by  Mrs.  Cushion 
impHed  introductions  and  references — ^from  the 
lodger — and  Mrs.  Cushion  was  by  no  means 
too  easily  pleased.  If  neither  the  vicar,  the 
doctor,  nor  the  squire  could  guarantee  your 
integrity  and  personal  pleasantness,  there  was 
no  hope  of  obtaining  Mrs.  Cushion's  rooms. 
Moreover,  she  preferred  gentlemen.  She  was 
frankly  emphatic  about  that. 

To  be  sure,  in  wet  weather  "they  did  make 
a  goodish  mess,"  what  with  tackle  and  muddy 
boots  and  the  many  garments  that  got  soaking 

79 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

wet  and  had  to  be  dried.  But  then,  they  did 
go  out  for  most  of  the  day,  and  that  gave  a 
body  time  to  clear  up  after  them.  And  when 
they'd  had  their  dinners  they  put  their  feet 
on  the  mantelpiece — "I  always  clears  all  my 
own  things  off  of  it  except  the  clock" — and 
they  smoked  peaceably  till  they  went  to  bed. 
"Now,  ladies" — it  was  clear  that  Mrs.  Cushion 
was  not  partial  to  ladies — "they  did  stay  in- 
doors if  there  cum  so  much  as  a  spot  of  rain." 
And  they  rang  their  bells  at  all  sorts  of  awkward 
times.  "You  couldn't  be  sure  of  'em  like  you 
was  of  gentlemen.  When  a  gentleman  settles 
down,  he  settles  down,  and  you  knows  where 
you  are,  and  what's  more,  you  knows  where 
'e  is.  Now,  ladies,  as  often  as  not,  'ud  be 
upon  you  in  your  kitching  before  you  so  much 
as  knew  they  was  in  the  passage — an'  it  were 
onsettlin'." 

No  lady  was  ever  allowed  to  set  foot  in  Mrs. 
Cushion's  hospitable  house  in  May  or  June  or 
the  first  part  of  July.  Those  months  were 
sacred  to  the  fishers;  but  as  a  favour  to  one 
of  the  references  she  would  sometimes  con- 
sent to  take  a  lady  in  August. 

The  vicar,  my  old  friend,  was  my  reference, 
80 


Mrs.  Cushion's  Children 

and  he  stood  surety  for  my  general  "peace- 
ableness."  He  assured  Mrs.  Cushion  that  so 
long  as  I  might  sleep  with  my  back  to  the  Hght 
that  I  would  not  want  to  alter  everything  in 
my  bedroom  (one  lady  lodger  had  done  this, 
and  Mrs.  Cushion  never  forgot  or  forgave  the 
"'ubbub"  that  ensued),  that  I  was  in  search 
of  perfect  quiet  in  which  to  finish  a  book,  and 
lastly  he  got  at  Mrs.  Cushion  through  her  kind 
heart — declaring  that  I  was  a  delicate,  muddly, 
incapable  sort  of  person  who  required  looking 
after. 

So  at  the  beginning  of  a  singularly  sunny 
August  I  went  down  to  Redmarley  to  take 
possession  of  two  rooms  in  "Snig's  Cottage." 
The  cottage  stands  about  half  a  mile  from 
Redmarley  itself,  high  above  a  bend  of  the 
river  known  as  "Snig's  Ferry,"  and  the  vil- 
lagers always  call  it  "Snig's." 

Who  Snig  was  no  one  knows,  for  the  cottage 
was  built  "nigh  upon  three  'undred  year  ago." 
The  vicar,  who  is  something  of  an  antiquarian, 
says  even  earlier.  In  the  memory  of  man 
"Snig's"  has  never  been  bought,  it  is  always 
"left,"  and  the  heritor,  so  far,  has  never  been 
wiUing  to  sell,  though,  as  Mrs.  Cushion  re- 

81 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

marked  scornfully,  "Artises  an'  sich  do  often 
come  after  it,  an'  one,  an  American  gentleman 
'e  was,  wanted  to  buy  'un  and  build  out  at  the 
back  all  over  my  bit  o'  garden  and  kip  the  old 
'ouse  just  as  a'  be  for  a  curiositee.  I  let  'im 
talk,  but,  bless  you,  my  uncle  left  it  to  me  in 
'is  will  and  I  shall  leave  it  the  same  in  mine; 
and  so  it'll  always  be,  so  long  as  there's  one 
stone  to  another.  'Ouses  is  'ouses  in  these 
parts." 

Solid  and  grey  and  gabled,  the  little  six- 
roomed  house  still  stood  in  its  trim  garden, 
outwardly  the  same  as  when  the  untraceable 
Snig  first  named  it.  Inside,  its  furniture  was 
a  jumble  of  periods,  but  there  were  no  aspi- 
distras, nor  did  any  ornament  cHng  to  a  plush 
bracket  on  the  walls.  Jacob  and  Rachel 
were  there,  and  the  infant  Samuel,  and  on  either 
side  of  the  clock  was  a  red-and-white  china 
spaniel  and  a  Toby  jug.  Mrs.  Cushion  frankly 
owned  that  she  had  preferred  her  own  "bits  of 
things"  to  some  of  her  uncle's  that  were  there 
when  she  came.  To  make  room  for  her  ma- 
hogany sideboard  she  had  sold  an  old  oak 
chest  to  the  American  gentleman,  who  was 
glad  to  give  a  good  price  for  it. 
82 


Mrs.  Cushion's  Children 

"A  hoak  chest/'  said  Mrs.  Cushion,  "is 
an  on'andy  thing  to  keep  the  gentlemen's 
beverages  in.  One  always  'as  to  lift  every- 
thing off  the  top  to  get  inside.  Now,  my 
sideboard  'as  doors  and  shelves  all  convenient 
one  side,  and  a  reg'lar  cellar  for  beverages  on 
the  other.  Not  but  as  what  folks  'ud  be  much 
better  without  them." 

Mrs.  Cushion  was,  herself,  strong  for  the 
temperance  cause,  but  she  was  too  tolerant 
a  woman  and  too  excellent  a  landlady  to  do 
more  than  hint  her  disapproval.  And  by 
calling  every  form  of  alcohol  "a  beverage" 
I'm  certain  she  felt  that  in  some  inexpli- 
cable way  she  so  rendered  it  more  or  less  in- 
nocuous. She  never  spoke  of  either  wines  or 
spirits  by  their  names,  only  collectively  as 
"beverages." 

And  I  speedily  learned  that  although  in- 
dulgence in  such  pleasures  of  the  table  was  to 
be  tolerated,  even  condoned,  in  men,  women 
were  expected  to  be  of  sterner  stuff;  and  I 
beheve  my  modest  half-flagon  of  Burgundy, 
reposing  in  meek  solitude  in  all  the  roomy  glory 
of  the  "cellaret,"  grieved  her  far  more  than 
when  that  same  cellaret  was  filled  by  the  varied 
83 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

and  much  stronger  "beverages"  of  her  male 
guests.  Yet  she  never  failed  to  remind  me 
when  there  was  only,  as  she  put  it,  "one  more 
dose/'  that  I  might  order  a  fresh  supply  from 
the  grocer. 

Men  she  regarded  as  children.  Her  mental 
attitude  towards  them  was  that  of  "boys  will 
be  boys/'  and  they  might  be  bald  and  stout, 
Generals  or  Viceroys  or  Secretaries  of  State  in 
their  public  capacity — ^but  did  such  an  one  be- 
come Mrs.  Cushion's  lodger  she  instantly  felt 
called  upon  to  stand  between  him  and  every 
discomfort,  to  condone  his  vagaries,  and  to 
give  him,  so  far  as  was  humanly  possible,  every 
mortal  thing  he  wanted.  Small  wonder  that 
her  "fishing  gentlemen"  took  her  rooms  months 
beforehand  and  year  after  year. 

"I  don't  suppose  as  you've  noticed,  miss, 
being,  so  to  speak,  unmarried  yourself — ^but 
there's  something  in  men-folk  as  seems  to 
stop  growin'  when  they  be  about  ten  year 
old.  It  crops  up  different  in  diiferent  sorts, 
but  it's  there  all  the  same  in  all  of  'em.  And 
when  it  crops  up — ^no  matter  if  'e  be  hever  so 
majestical  an'  say  nothing  to  nobody,  the  seein' 
eye  can  figure  'im  out  in  tore  knickerbockers  an' 
84 


Mrs.  Cushion's  Children 

a  dirty  face  same  as  if  he  stood  in  front  of  you 
— ^more  especially  if  you've  'ad  little  boys  of 
your  own." 

"I  suppose/'  I  said — ^perhaps  a  bit  wist- 
fully, for  Mrs.  Cushion  was  rather  fond  of 
referring  to  my  spinsterhood — "it  does  make 
a  great  difference.  .  .  .  First  you  know  your 
husband  so  well,  and  then  your  sons.  .  .  . 
By  the  way,  what  was  your  husband,  Mrs. 
Cushion?" 

Mrs.  Cushion  turned  very  red  and  was 
manifestly  uncomfortable.  "I'd  rather  not 
talk  about  'im,  miss,"  she  said  hastily.  "He 
weren't  an  overly  good  'usban'  to  me  .  .  . 
but  the  children  .  .  ."  Here  Mrs.  Cushion 
beamed,  and  with  restored  tranquillity  con- 
tinued, "The  children  'ave  made  it  all  up  to 
me  over  and  over." 

Yet  from  an  outsider's  point  of  view,  espe- 
cially from  that  of  one  who  was  "so  to  speak 
unmarried,"  Mrs.  Cushion  didn't  seem  to  get 
any  great  benefit  from  her  two  sons.  One 
was  in  Australia  and  one  in  Canada,  and  though 
she  had  been  Hving  in  Redmarley  some  six 
years,  I  could  not  discover  that  either  had  ever 
been  home.  They  were  not,  I  gathered,  par- 
85 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

ticularly  good  correspondents,  nor  did  they  seem 
to  assist  their  mother  in  any  way  financially, 
or  send  presents  home.  All  the  same,  they  were 
a  source  of  pride  and  joy  to  Mrs.  Cushion,  and 
a  never-failing  topic  of  conversation.  In  fact, 
I  think  that  one  of  the  things  that  caused  her 
to  tolerate  my  sex  and  my  spinsterhood  was 
the  real  interest  I  took  in  Arty  and  Bert,  and 
my  readiness  to  talk  about  either  or  both  at  all 
times. 

They  were  never  quite  clear  to  me,  and 
this  was  odd,  because  Mrs.  Cushion  was  cer- 
tainly graphic  and  vivid  in  her  descriptions 
as  a  rule.  She  would  never  show  me  their 
portraits  because  she  said  they  "took  badly," 
both  of  them. 

By  my  third  August  I  could  have  passed 
a  stiff  examination  in  her  "gentlemen."  I 
felt  that  I  knew  them  intimately,  both  as  to 
their  appearance,  manners,  and  taste  both 
in  viands  and  beverages. 

There  was  Mr.  Lancaster,  who  ate  meat 
only  once  a  day,  drank  white  wine,  and  was 
that  gentle  and  considerate  you'd  never  know 
he  was  there  except  that  he  did  lose  his  things 
so,  and  had  a  habit  of  putting  his  coffee-cup 
86 


Mrs.  Cushion's  Children 

and  pipes  and  newspapers  under  the  valance 
of  the  sofa. 

"Faithful-'earted;  I  calls  'im!"  said  Mrs. 
Cushion.  "Every  Saturday  reg'lar  he  sends 
me  the  Times  newspaper,  and  it  is  gratifying 
to  see  a  'igh-class  newspaper  like  that  once 
a  week.  It  do  make  me  feel  like  a  real  lady 
just  to  read  the  rents  of  them  'ouses  on  the  back 
page,  and  it  does  me  no  end  of  good  to  know 
who's  preaching  at  St.  Paul's  Cathedral — all 
the  churches,  in  fact;  it's  almost  as  good  as 
being  there." 

"  Wouldn't  you  rather  have  a  picture  paper  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"Certainly  not,  miss,"  Mrs.  Cushion  re- 
plied with  dignified  asperity.  "I  much  pre- 
fer what  Mr.  Lancaster  reads  his-self,  an'  it's 
the  kind  thought  I  values  far  more  than  the 
amusingness  of  the  paper.  It  seems  to  keep 
him  an'  me  in  mind  of  one  another." 

"  Do  your  boys  often  send  you  papers,  Mrs. 
Cushion?" 

"Well  .  .  .  not  so  to  speak  often.  .  .  .  It's 
difficult  for  them,  and  I  dare  say  the  papers 
in  those  parts  ain't  like  ours.    Perhaps  they 

wouldn't  be  suitable " 

87 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"Is  Mr.  Lancaster  married?'^ 

"Not  to  my  knowledge,  miss/'  answered 
the  cautious  Mrs.  Cushion.  "He  don't  be- 
have like  a  married  man.  .  .  .  Not" — she 
added  hastily,  eager  to  give  no  wrong  im- 
pression— "not  that  'e's  ever  anything  but 
most  conformable;  only  there's  a  difference 
between  them  as  is  married  and  them  as  isn't. 
I'm  sure  you  see  it  yourself,  miss,  though,  to 
be  sure,  you're  nothing  like  so  set  in  your 
ways  as  some.  If  I  was  you,  miss,"  said  Mrs. 
Cushion,  suddenly  beaming  upon  me  like  a 
rosy  sun  in  spectacles,  "I  shouldn't  give  up 
hope.  Mr.  Right  may  come  along  for  you 
even  yet.  I  'ad  a  friend  who  married  when 
she  were  fifty-nine.  ...  To  be  sure,  'er 
'usban'  was  bedridden,  but  'e's  living  to  this 
day,  an'  it's  a  good  fifteen  years  ago." 

"I  don't  think  I  should  like  a  bedridden 
husband,  Mrs.  Cushion." 

"You'll  like  whatever  you  gets,  my  dear, 
never  you  fear."  And  Mrs.  Cushion  bustled 
out  with  the  tray,  leaving  me  to  the  rather 
rueful  reflection  that  her  last  speech  was  more 
complimentary  to  my  stoicism  than  to  my 
matrimonial  prospects. 

88 


Mrs.  Cushion's  Children 

"Snig's"  was  an  ideal  place  to  work  in: 
quiet  without  being  lonely;  fresh  and  brac- 
ing, yet  seldom  cold;  beautiful  with  the 
homely,  tender  grace  of  pastoral  England. 
The  doctor  and  his  wife  "over  to  Winstone" 
were  hospitable  and  kind,  the  villagers  were 
friendly  as  only  peasant  folk  in  the  remote 
Cotswolds  still  are;  the  vicar  I  always  look 
upon  as  one  of  the  most  understanding  and 
delightful  people  I've  ever  met.  That  autumn 
the  squire  and  his  large  lively  family  were  up 
in  Scotland,  but  this  only  increased  possibilities 
of  work,  and  I  stayed  on  at  Snig's  into  October. 

One  day  the  vicar  summoned  me  to  luncheon. 
A  friend  from  a  distance  had  motored  over, 
bringing  with  him  his  guests,  a  visiting  parson 
and  his  wife,  to  see  the  church  and  the  village, 
and  he  implored  my  presence  "to  keep  Mrs. 
Robinson  in  countenance." 

Not  that  anything  of  the  kind  was  needed, 
for  Mrs.  Robinson  turned  out  to  be  a  most 
self-sufficient  and  didactic  lady,  with  "clergy- 
man's wife"  writ  large  all  over  her.  Her 
husband  was  of  the  conscientious,  mentally 
mediocre  type  of  parson,  with  much  energy 
and  no  imagination;  and  luncheon  seemed  a 
89 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

very  long  meal.  There  appeared  a  curious 
dearth  of  topics  of  conversation,  and  for  lack 
of  something  better  the  vicar  explained  my 
presence  in  Redmarley,  mentioning  that  I 
had  been  living  for  the  last  two  months  with  the 
excellent  Mrs.  Cushion — "who  comes,  I  be- 
lieve," he  added,  "from  your  part  of  the 
world." 

"Caroline  Cushion?"  Mrs.  Robinson  de- 
manded, with  that  air  of  cross-questioning  a 
witness  which  made  small-talk  so  difficult. 
"If  it's  Carohne  Cushion,  she  did  live  in  our 
parish,  and  she  certainly  wasn't  'Mrs.'  then, 
but  a  middle-aged  single  woman.  She  left 
soon  after  my  husband  got  the  living,  but  I 
remember  her  quite  well — she  came  into  a 
house,  or  something,  and  went  away  to  live 
in  it." 

"It's  a  curious  coincidence,"  said  the  vicar 
easily,  "but  it  can't  be  our  Mrs.  Cushion,  for 
not  only  is  she  married,  but  she  has  grown- 
up sons  to  whom  she  is  absolutely  devoted." 

"It's  unlikely,"  said  Mrs.  Robinson,  "that 
there  could  be  two  Caroline  Cushions  both 
coming  from  the  same  village,  and  both  in- 
heriting property  at  a  distance.  The  matter 
90 


Mrs.  Cushion's  Children 

should  be  looked  into,  for  certainly  with  us 
she  passed  always  as  a  single  woman,  and  to 
the  best  of  my  belief  had  spent  almost  her 
whole  life  in  the  village.  Is  she  a  fairish  woman, 
stout,  with  red  cheeks?" 

"She  is  very  pleasant  and  fresh-looking," 
said  the  vicar,  looking  at  me  for  help.  "But 
I  am  quite  sure  she  can't  be  the  one  you  mean." 

"I'm  not  at  all  sure  of  anything  of  the  kind," 
Mrs.  Robinson  snapped.  "  She  may  have  been 
living  a  double  life  all  these  years.  As  I  said 
before,  the  matter  should  be  looked  into.  I'd 
know  her  again  if  I  saw  her.  I  never  forget  a 
face." 

I  don't  know  why  it  was,  but  I  suddenly 
felt  most  uncomfortable,  and  was  surprised 
at  my  own  passionate  determination  that 
Mrs.  Robinson  should  not  see  Mrs.  Cushion. 
We  had  reached  the  walnut  stage,  and  I  sug- 
gested to  her  that  she  and  I  might  go  and  sit 
in  the  drawing-room  and  leave  the  gentlemen 
to  smoke. 

"My  husband  doesn't  smoke,"  she  said 
severely  as  we  crossed  the  hall;  "he  doesn't 
think  it  becoming  in  a  clergyman,  and  I  must 
say  I  agree  with  him.    But  then  he  is  rector 

91 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

of  the  parish;  and  one  of  those — too  few,  alas ! 
in  these  lax  days — ^who  acts  up  to  his  con- 
victions. .  .  .  NoW;  about  this  Mrs.  Cushion. 
.  .  ."  Mrs.  Robinson  by  this  time  was  seated 
beside  me  on  the  vicar's  chesterfield.  "I  feel 
quite  anxious.  What  can  be  her  reason  for 
masquerading  as  a  married  woman  here? 
Even  if  she  had  married  since  she  left  her  old 
home,  it's  most  unlikely  that  her  name  would 
still  be  Cushion,  and  it's  impossible  that  she 
should  have  grown-up  sons.  Have  you  seen 
them?" 

"They  are  both  abroad,"  I  answered,  "and 
isn't  Cushion  quite  a  common  name  in  Glouces- 
tershire?" 

"Not  at  all;  it's  a  very  wwcommon  name, 
that's  why  I  remember  it  so  distinctly — and 
to  think  she  always  passed  for  a  most  respect- 
able woman!" 

"So  she  is,"  I  interrupted  with  some  heat. 
"A  most  kind  and  admirable  woman  in  every 
possible  way.  Every  one  here  has  the  greatest 
respect  for  her.  She's  probably  a  cousin  of 
your  one — ^who  doubtless  was  quite  excellent 
also.  Would  you  care  to  go  out  and  look  at 
the  dahlias?    The  vicar  has  quite  a  show." 

92 


Mrs.  Cushion's  Children 

Never  did  I  spend  a  more  trjdng  half-hour 
than  the  one  that  followed.  Mrs.  Robinson 
kept  returning  to  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Cushion 
with  a  persistency  worthy  of  a  better  cause; 
and  I,  for  no  reason  that  I  could  formulate, 
kept  heading  her  off  and  trying  to  turn  her 
thoughts  down  other  paths.  It  was  Mrs. 
Cushion's  sons  that  seemed  to  annoy  her 
most,  and  I  had  the  queer,  wholly  illogical 
feeling  that  Mrs.  Robinson  would,  unless 
prevented,  snatch  them  away  from  Mrs. 
Cushion,  and  that  it  was  up  to  me  to  prevent 
anything  of  the  kind.  So  nervous  did  I  feel 
that  I  accompanied  the  party  to  see  the  church 
and  the  village,  and  only  breathed  freely  again 
when  Mr.  Vernon's  car  had  borne  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Robinson  away  in  a  direction  wholly  opposite  to 
Snig's. 

As  his  guests  vanished  over  the  bridge  in  the 
direction  of  Marlehouse,  the  vicar  sighed  deeply. 
"Now,  why,"  he  demanded,  "should  Vernon 
have  brought  those  people  to  me?  I  suppose 
he  was  so  bored  himself  he  had  to  do  something. 
She's  his  cousin,  I  beHeve,  and  what  a  trying 
lady!" 

"Did  you  'ave  a  nice  party,  miss?"  asked 
93 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Mrs.  Cushion  an  hour  or  so  later,  as  she  brought 
in  my  tea. 

"Curiously  enough,  there  was  a  clergyman 
and  his  wife  from  your  old  home,  Mrs.  Cushion. 
I  wonder  if  you  remember  them  ?  A  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Robinson." 

"I  suppose  you  didn't  'appen  to  name  me, 
miss?"  Mrs.  Cushion  asked — I  thought  a 
trifle  nervously. 

"WeU,  I  didn't,  but  the  vicar  did." 

"Yes,  miss,  and  did  Mrs.  Robinson  seem  to 
remember  me?" 

"She  remembered  some  one  of  your  name, 
Mrs.  Cushion,  but  it  couldn't  have  been  you 
— ^perhaps  you  have  relations  in  her  parish?" 

"May  I  make  so  bold,  miss,  as  to  ask  ex- 
actly what  she  did  say?" 

"That  it  was  a  Miss  Cushion  she  knew, 
who  left  soon  after  her  husband  got  the  Hv- 
ing." 

"I  dare  say  she  did,"  said  Mrs.  Cushion 
grimly;  "and  there  was  many  as  would  have 
gone,  too,  if  they'd  had  the  chanst.  If  it's 
not  taking  a  Hberty,  miss,  was  you  exactly 
dravfd  to  Mrs.  Robinson?" 

"Certainly  not,"  I  repUed.  "I  couldn't 
94 


Mrs.  Cushion's  Children 

get  on  with  her  at  all.  Are  they  popular  in 
the  parish?" 

"It's  not  for  me  to  say,  miss.  I  left  two 
months  after  they  did  come.  They  was  new 
brooms,  you  see,  and  swep'  away  a  lot  of 
old  customs.  They  wasn't  like  the  Reverend 
'ere — he's  all  for  'live  and  let  live' — ^but  they 
was  all  for  making  every  one  live  as  they  thought 
proper.  I  don't  say  they  was  wrong,  and  I 
don't  say  they  was  right,  but  whichever  it  was, 
it  weren't  peaceable. 

"But,"  concluded  Mrs.  Cushion,  "I've  no 
business  gossiping  here,  and  you  wanting  your 
tea." 

So  she  left  me  to  my  tea  and  the  reflection 
that  she  had  neither  contradicted  nor  con- 
firmed Mrs.  Robinson's  statement. 

During  the  next  couple  of  days  I  was  con- 
scious of  a  certain  constraint  in  our,  hitherto, 
completely  cordial  relationship.  Mrs.  Cushion 
was  just  as  careful  as  ever  for  my  comfort — 
everything  was  just  as  well  done,  and  meals  as 
punctual,  and  rooms  spick  and  span  as  before; 
but  I  missed  something.  I  missed  the  interest 
she  used  to  take  in  me  and  the  interest  she 
allowed  me  to  take  in  her.  She  was  still  the 
95 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

perfect  landlady,  but  I  grievously  missed  the 
frank  and  genial  human  being. 

I  had  lunched  with  the  vicar  and  his  guests 
on  Tuesday.  On  Friday  afternoon  Mrs. 
Cushion  got  a  lift  into  "Ziren"  to  do  some 
shopping,  and  I  had  to  take  my  own  letters 
to  the  post  office.  I  met  the  vicar  on  his 
way  to  call  on  me,  and  he  turned  back  and 
walked  with  me,  and  I  speedily  perceived  that 
something  worried  him.  The  vicar  is  stout 
and  gouty,  and  walks  but  slowly.  We  only 
just  caught  the  post,  and  then  he  asked  me  to 
go  with  him  to  the  vicarage  to  look  at  a  black 
dahlia  in  his  garden  before  the  first  frosts 
took  it. 

In  the  garden  he  stopped  long  before  we 
came  to  the  dahlias  and  exclaimed,  ''I've  heard 
from  that  vexatious  woman." 

"Mrs.  Robinson?" 

"Yes;  just  read  her  letter." 

"Deak  Mr.  Molyneux,"  it  ran,  "I  feel  it 
is  my  duty  to  teU  you  that  I  have  been  making 
inquiries  about  Caroline  Cushion,  and  there  is 
no  question  whatever  that  she  is  the  same  per- 
son who  was  Hving  here  when  my  husband  and 
96 


Mrs.  Cushion's  Children 

I  first  came  to  the  parish.  It  happens  that 
Mrs.  Bayley,  widow  of  the  former  incumbent, 
is  at  present  staying  with  Lady  Moreland  at  the 
Manor,  and  I  called  upon  her  the  day  I  retmned 
from  Mr.  Vernon's,  that  I  might  make  search- 
ing inquiries  as  to  where  Caroline  Cushion  had 
lived  before  she  left  for  Redmarley,  where  I 
understand  she  was  left  a  cottage  by  her  uncle, 
her  mother's  brother.  Mrs.  Bayley  remembered 
her  perfectly  well,  and,  I  must  say,  spoke 
highly  of  her.  But  she  was  as  astonished  as  I 
was  to  hear  she  was  posing  as  a  married  woman 
with  a  family,  for  she  had  lived  in  this  parish 
from  her  youth  up.  I  grieve  much  that  I 
should  have  to  bring  this  life  of  duplicity  to 
Ught;  and  I  feel  it  is  only  right  to  let  you  know, 
that  you  may  take  steps  to  sift  the  matter  and 
bring  the  woman  to  a  proper  sense  of  her  wrong- 
doing. For  if  during  the  years  she  Hved  here 
she  really  possessed  a  husband  and  children, 
she  shamefully  neglected  them;  and  if  she  is 
immarried  the  case  is  infinitely  worse.  Please 
let  me  know  the  result  of  your  investiga- 
tions. 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"Elaine  M.  Robinson." 
97 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

In  silence  I  gave  back  the  letter  to  the  vicar 
and  involuntarily  I  shivered,  for  the  wind  was 
very  cold. 

*'Well?"  he  asked  impatiently,  "what  do 
you  make  of  it?" 

"I  can't  make  anything  of  it.  The  whole 
thing's  a  mystery." 

Then  I  told  him  of  my  tea-time  conversa- 
tion with  Mrs.  Cushion,  and  of  the  curious 
constraint  in  her  maimer  ever  since:  of  how 
unhappy  it  made  me,  and  how  cordially  I 
detested  Mrs.  Robinson  and  wished  her  far 
further  than  the  Forest  of  Dean — though  to 
the  Redmarley  folk  the  Forest  of  Dean  is  in- 
deed as  the  ends  of  the  earth. 

"If  I  know  anything  of  human  natiu'e," 
said  the  vicar,  punctuating  his  remarks  with 
vicious  flicks  of  the  finger  upon  Mrs.  Robin- 
son's envelope,  "Mrs.  Cushion  is  as  honest 
and  straightforward  a  woman  as  ever  stepped, 
a  good  woman,  a  kindly  woman.  Has  she  never 
said  anything  to  you  about  her  husband?" 

"Only  once.  I  asked  about  him,  and  I 
saw  it  was  a  painful  subject,  so  I  never  men- 
tioned him  again.  I  fear  he  w^as  an  unsatis- 
factory person." 

98 


Mrs.  Cushion's  Children 

"But  what  am  I  to  say  to  this  pestiferous 
woman?  If  I  don't  answer  her,  she's  capable 
of  coming  over  here  and  setting  the  whole 
\Tllage  by  the  ears.  ...  I  should  like,"  he 
added  vindictively,  "to  throw  a  stone  through 
her  window."  As  he  spoke  I  was  reminded  of 
Mrs.  Cushion's  remark,  "There's  something  in 
men-folks  as  seems  to  stop  growin'  when  they 
be  about  ten  year  old":  for  although  the  vicar 
is  stout  and  bald,  and  his  close-cropped  beard 
and  moustache  quite  white,  yet  there  and  then 
I  seemed  to  see  "a  little  boy  in  tore  knicker- 
bockers and  a  dirty  face  same  as  if  'e  stood  in 
front  of  me." 

"Wait  a  day  or  two,"  I  suggested;  "she 
won't  expect  an  answer  by  return  because 
you've  got  to  make  your  'investigations,' 
you  know." 

He  groaned.  "How  can  I?  If  there's  one 
thing  I  wholeheartedly  abhor  it's  poking  and 
prying  into  another  person's  affairs — it's  so 
.  .  .  ungentlemanly.  I  wouldn't  do  it  to  my 
worst  enemy,  but  when  it's  a  decent,  kindly 
body  who  has  been  my  right  hand  in  every 
good  thing  that's  been  done  in  this  village  ever 
since  she  came.  .  .  .  Look  here,  my  dear. 
99 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Perhaps  you — ^without  hurting  her  feelings — 
could  find  out  something  to  satisfy  Mrs.  Robin- 
son.   It  would  come  better  from  you." 

I  doubted  this,  but  I  promised  the  poor 
worried  vicar  to  do  my  best.  I  walked  back  to 
Snig's  as  fast  as  I  could,  for  I  was  chilled  to  the 
bone.    It  certainly  was  a  very  cold  east  wind. 

Mrs.  Cushion  was  back  when  I  arrived.  A 
bright  fire  blazed  on  my  hearth  and  hot  muffins 
awaited  me  for  tea.  She  looked  cold  and  de- 
pressed, and  she  had  no  news  for  me  either  of 
the  fashions  in  the  "Ziren"  shop  windows  or  of 
acquaintances  she  had  met.  Even  references 
to  her  beloved  boys  failed  to  elicit  more  than 
monosyllables. 

Next  morning  she  began  to  cough.  For  a 
day  and  a  haK  she  struggled  on  doing  her  house- 
hold work  as  usual.  Through  the  night  I 
heard  her  coughing  so  incessantly  that  I  got 
up  and  went  across  to  her  room.  It  had  turned 
very  cold,  and  in  spite  of  her  protests,  I  lit  a 
fire  and  did  what  I  could  to  relieve  her,  in  the 
shape  of  hot  black-currant  tea  and  rubbing  her 
with  embrocation.  I  also  took  her  temperature, 
which  was  104° ! 

In  the  morning  she  was  so  ill  that  she  con- 
100 


Mrs.  Cushion's  Children 

sented  to  stay  in  bed,  and  I  sent  a  note  to  the 
doctor  by  the  boy  that  brought  the  milk. 

When  he  came  he  declared  Mrs.  Cushion 
to  be  down  with  influenza,  and  that  she  must 
be  very  careful.  He  would  send  in  the  parish 
nurse  that  morning  and  a  woman  to  do  for  me. 
If  a  trained  niu^e  should  be  necessary,  he'd 
get  one,  but  he  thought  if  I  could  stay  for  a  day 
or  two  to  superintend  things  we  could  manage. 
Warmth,  rest,  and  quiet  in  bed  till  her  tempera- 
ture went  down  were  all  that  was  necessary. 

Everything  went  smoothly.  The  parish 
nurse  was  a  personal  friend  of  Mrs.  Cushion. 
The  woman  sent  in  "mornings"  was  most 
attentive  and  efficient,  and  the  fact  that  she 
was  no  cook  did  not  seem  to  matter,  for  so 
much  more  than  Mrs.  Cushion  could  eat  was 
sent  in  by  sympathetic  neighbours  that  we 
lived  on  the  fat  of  the  land  on  the  surplus. 
If  there  had  ever  been  any  question  as  to 
Mrs.  Cushion's  popularity  in  Redmarley,  it 
was  answered  now,  and  in  the  most  emphatic 
way. 

Anxious  inquirers  came  at  all  hours,  and 
I  spent  most  of  my  time  watching  the  garden 
that  I  might  open  the  door,  front  or  back, 
101 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

before  the  visitor  could  rap — you  rap  with  your 
knuckles  in  Redmarley,  whether  the  door  hap- 
pens to  be  open  or  shut :  the  latter  only  occurs 
in  cold  weather  or  on  washing-days. 

One  thing  did  strike  me,  and  that  was  the 
number  of  young  men  and  boys  who  came, 
not  only  to  inquire,  but  to  bring  offerings  of 
all  sorts.  It  seemed  to  me  that  every  male 
being  under  thirty  that  I  had  ever  seen  in  Red- 
marley, man  or  boy,  or  hobbledehoy,  came  to 
get  news  of  Mrs.  Cushion — and  I'  was  always 
careful  to  ask  their  names  and  write  them  down, 
for  I  soon  discovered  that  their  solicitude  gave 
her  pleasure. 

It  was  the  only  thing  that  did  seem  to 
give  her  pleasure  just  then.  When  the  cough 
was  easier  and  her  temperature  went  down, 
she  remained  heartrendingly  weak,  and  at 
the  end  of  six  days  the  doctor  asked  me  if  I 
thought  "she  had  anything  on  her  mind," 
for,  if  so,  it  must  be  got  at  and  lifted;  for  she'd 
never  get  well  at  this  rate. 

Now  that  she  was,  of  necessity,  rather  de- 
pendent on  me  in  a  good  many  small  ways, 
Mrs.  Cushion  had  become  less  reserved,  more 
like  her  former  self,  in  fact — but  yet,  I  always 
102 


Mrs.  Cushion's  Children 

felt  that  there  was  something  between  us. 
Her  blue  eyes,  sometimes  without  the  spec- 
tacles now,  would  follow  me  about  with  a  wist- 
ful, weighing  expression  that  was  full  of  dumb 
pain  and  pathos;  but  naturally  all  exciting 
topics  were  taboo,  and  I  had  never  again,  since 
that  first  afternoon,  referred  to  Mrs.  Robinson 
and  her  disturbing  revelations. 

One  evening  about  nine  o'clock,  when  Mrs. 
Cushion  had  been  in  bed  eight  whole  days, 
when  the  nurse  had  gone  for  the  night,  and 
I  was  left  in  charge,  when  I  had  made  up 
her  fire,  lit  the  night-light,  and  arranged  the 
hand-bell  and  all  her  possible  wants  on  a  table 
by  her  bed — I  was  going  back  to  mine,  but  she 
stopped  me  as  I  reached  the  door  with  a  faintly 
whispered  "  Miss ! " 

I  went  back  to  the  side  of  the  bed  and  looked 
down  at  her.  She  was  very  pale,  and  had  put 
on  the  spectacles  as  though  to  see  me  better 
in  the  dim  light. 

"Miss,"  she  repeated,  "I  can't  kip  it  to 
myself  no  longer;  that  there  Mrs.  Robinson 
was  right — I  wasn't  never  married  an'  I  never 
'ad  no  children." 

Mrs.  Cushion's  hands  were  picking  nervously 
103 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

at  the  sheet,  though  her  eyes  never  left  my 
face  for  a  single  minute.  I  seized  one  of  the 
weak,  cold  hands,  and  held  it  in  both  mine — 
but  I  could  not  speak. 

"You'd  better  sit  down,  miss,  while  I  tell 
'ee.  ...  All  my  life  long  I've  loved  children 
— ^more  especially  boys.  When  I  was  a  young 
'ooman,  I  'ad  my  chanst  same  as  most.  One 
was  a  school-teacher,  most  respectable  'e 
were — ^but  I  couldn't  seem  to  fancy  'im:  and 
t'other,  'e  were  a  hundertaker,  and  I  couldn't 
fancy  'is  trade — so  there  it  was.  An'  as  time 
went  on  I  did  get  thinkin'  about  the  little  boys 
as  I  should  like  to  'ave  'ad;  and  they  did  seem 
to  get  realler  and  realler — Arty  and  Bert  did — 
till  I  sorter  felt  I  couldn't  get  along  without 
'em.  .  .  .  Do  it  seem  very  queer  to  you, 
miss?" 

"Not  a  bit,  dear  Mrs.  Cushion." 

"Now,  I  ast  you,  miss — do  I  look  like  a 
hold  maid,  or  do  I  look  like  a  comfortable 
married  woman  with  a  family?" 

"I  think  you  look  very  married,"  I  exclaimed 
quite  truthfully — "very  motherly." 

"Well,  so  do  I  think — and  when  I  came  'ere 
where  no  one  knowed  anything  about  me  ex- 
104 


Mrs.  Cushion's  Children 

cepting  I  was  uncle's  niece,  I  says  to'  myself, 
says  I,  'You  act  up  to  your  looks,  Caroline 
Cushion — an'  then  you  can  talk  about  your 
children  same  as  the  rest.'  I  didn't  trouble  my 
'ead  about  a  'usban' — I  'adn't  never  thought 
about  'im.  So  when  folks  asked  me — ^Hke  you 
yourself,  miss — I  just  prims  up  my  mouth  and 
shakes  my  'ead,  and  they  sees  as  'e  weren't  up 
to  much,  and  they  says  no  more.  Sometimes 
I've  thought  as  it  were  a  bit  onfair  on  'im,  pore 
chap,  an'  'im  never  done  me  no  'arm — ^but — 
there.  ...  I  couldn't  stop  to  think  about  'im. 
'Twere  the  boys  as  I  wanted — an'  they  did 
comfort  me  so,  miss,  an'  I  don't  know  ^ow  as 
I  can  ever  give  'em  up." 
"But  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should.'* 
"Ah,  miss,  you  speaks  so  kind  because 
you  do  think,  'She's  ill,  poor  thing,  and  we 
must  yumour  'er,'  but  what'd  the  Reverend 
say?  You  may  depend  as  that  there  Mrs. 
Robinson'U  never  let  it  alone.  What'll  'e 
say?  An'  if  'e  says  as  I've  got  to  tell  every 
one  I  ain't  no  married  woman  an'  never  'ad 
no  children,  I'd  rather  not  get  well.  I  couldn't 
face  it,  miss.  Because  I  canH  feel  as  the  Lard's 
very  angry  with  me — I  can't." 
105 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"Mrs.  Cushion,  will  you  let  me  tell  Mr. 
Molyneux,  and  see  what  he  says?" 

Mrs.  Cushion  sighed.  "I  suppose  'e'U  'ave 
to  be  told,  an'  you'd  tell  him  more  straight- 
forward nor  I  could.  It's  all  so  mixed  up  like. 
You  see,  them  boys  ain't  never  done  no  'arm 
to  any  one — they  so  far  off  and  all — an'  I  will 
say  this,  miss,  they've  give  me  a  sort  of  'old 
over  young  growin'  chaps  I  wouldn't  'ave  'ad 
without  'em.  Many's  the  young  chap  as  'ave 
listened  to  a  word  from  me  about  drink  and  the 
like,  because  'e's  thought,  'There,  she  knows  as 
it's  only  natural — she's  got  some  of  'er  own — 
she  won't  be  too  'ard  on  me' — and  they  did 
like  me,  I  knows  they  did — they  did  indeed, 
miss." 

I  thought  of  the  hobbledehoys  and  the  shy, 
furtive  presents  of  eggs  and  honey  and  tight 
little  bunches  of  flowers,  and  an  occasional 
rabbit — how  come  by  it  were  perhaps  better 
not  to  inquire — and  the  inarticulate  lingering, 
the  waiting  for  intelligence  they  were  too  shy 
to  ask  for — I  thought  of  these  things,  and  I 
knew  that  Mrs.  Cushion  spoke  the  truth. 

"Now,  you,  miss,"  the  tired,  whispering 
voice  went  on,  "if  I  may  say  so,  you  looks 
106 


Mrs.  Cushion's  Children 

unmarried;  and  yet,  I  do  believe  as  you 
understands." 

"I  do,  I  do,  Mrs.  Cushion." 

"It  seemed  some'ow  as  if  it  'a^  to  be,  and 
yet  there's  no  one  'ates  Hes  and  bedanglements 
more  than  me.  An'  there  I've  been  and  gone 
and  done  it  myself.  But  I  ain't  going  to  own 
it!"  Mrs.  Cushion  added  almost  fiercely. 
"Not  if  I  'ad  to  let  Snig's  an'  leave  these  parts. 
I'd  far  rather  die." 

By  this  time  she  was  as  flushed  as  she  had 
been  pale  before,  and  I  had  to  tell  her  she 
mustn't  talk  any  more,  but  leave  it  all  till  the 
morning,  when  we'd  consult  the  vicar. 

For  about  an  hour  I  sat  by  her  bed,  tiU  her 
more  regular  breathing  showed  me  she  had 
dropped  off  into  the  sleep  of  sheer  exhaustion. 

In  the  morning  I  sent  a  note  to  the  vicar 
by  one  of  the  solicitous  young  men,  and  by 
ten  o'clock  he  was  in  my  sitting-room,  while 
the  parish  nurse  was  getting  Mrs.  Cushion's 
room  ready  upstairs. 

I  told  the  story  very  briefly,  and  as  far  as 

possible  in  her  own  words;    and  the  vicar, 

who  had  been  sitting  at  the  table  facing  the 

light,  suddenly  got  up  and  stood  by  the  fire- 

107 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

place,  his  elbow  on  the  mantel-shelf,  shading 
his  eyes  with  his  hand  and  almost  tm-ning  his 
back  upon  me. 

"And  if  she  can't  keep  her  children,  she 
won't  get  well,"  I  concluded. 

"Of  course  she  must  keep  her  children," 
he  muttered  hoarsely. 

"But  what  about  Mrs.  Robinson?" 

He  blew  his  nose,  with  his  handkerchief 
all  over  his  face,  and  then  turned  on  me  tri- 
umphantly, handing  me  a  letter. 

"I  was  coming  to  you  this  morning  in  any 
case,  to  show  you  this.  I  suddenly  decided 
what  to  say  and  thought  you'd  like  to  see  it. 
I'm  glad  I  wrote  before  you  told  me  this. 
There's  a  decisive  vagueness  about  it  that  will, 
I  know,  command  your  hterary  respect — ^if 
nothing  else." 

This  is  what  he  had  written: 

"Dear  Mrs.  Robinson, — Of  course  you 
are  right.  The  Caroline  Cushion  you  knew 
never  was  married  nor  had  she  any  children; 
and  she  always  was,  as  you  charitably  sup- 
posed, an  entirely  respectable  woman.  The 
confusion  arose  with  Miss  Legh  and  me,  and  I 
108 


Mrs.  Cushion's  Children 

apologise  for  the  trouble  we  have  inadvertently- 
caused  you.  Thanking  you  for  so  satisfactorily 
clearing  up  the  matter,  I  am  yours  faithfully, 

"G.   W.   MOLYNEUX." 

The  parish  nurse  knocked  at  the  door. 
"I've  put  her  quite  straight,  Miss  Legh,  and 
the  doctor  said  yesterday  she  can  have  any- 
thing she  fancies  for  her  dinner." 

Up  the  steep  stairs  the  vicar  chmbed,  paus- 
ing at  the  top  to  get  his  breath.  Mrs.  Cushion 
was  sitting  up  in  bed,  propped  up  with  pillows. 
She  had. on  her  best  cap  and  the  gold-rimmed 
spectacles  sacred  to  Sundays. 

"Peace  be  to  this  house,  and  all  that  dwell 
in  it,"  said  the  vicar  from  the  threshold. 

I  shut  the  bedroom  door  and  left  them. 

When  the  vicar  had  creaked  heavily  down- 
stairs again,  I  went  and  opened  the  front  door 
for  him. 

"Poor  soul !"  he  said,  "poor,  hungry-hearted, 
lo\ingsoul!  Do  you  remember  Elia?"  And 
more  to  himself  than  to  me  he  murmured, 
"And  yet  they  are  nothing;  less  than  nothing, 
and  dreams.  They  are  only  what  might  have 
been." 

109 


VII 

SANCTUARY 

THE  Reverend  Grantley  Molyneux  hob- 
bled down  to  the  church  for  the  first  time 
for  some  weeks.  An  attack  of  gout,  unusually 
severe,  had  kept  him  veritably  "tied  by  the 
leg"  during  the  best  of  the  June  weather. 
Now  that  he  was  about  again  there  were  but 
gleams  of  watery  sunshine  to  tempt  him  out 
of  doors.  However,  the  sunshine  if  watery 
was  warm,  and  by  the  time  the  "old  vicar" 
— for  so  he  loved  to  be  called — ^had  reached 
the  church  he  was  glad  to  enter  and  rest  in 
its  cool  grey  shadows. 

From  sunrise  to  sunset  Redmarley  Church 
stood  open.  There  were  no  week-day  ser- 
vices— ^the  worthy  yeomen  who  formed  the 
bulk  of  the  congregation  would  have  looked 
with  great  suspicion  on  any  such  innovation; 
but  none  the  less  would  they  have  been  in- 
dignant had  the  church  been  shut. 

For  nearly  forty  years  the  present  incum- 
110 


Sanctuary- 
bent  had  ministered  to  the  people  of  Red- 
marley.  He  was,  on  the  whole,  decidedly 
popular — indeed,  rumour  had  it  that  in  his 
slim  youth  he  had  been  over-popular — ^with 
the  fair,  being  in  the  matter  of  susceptibihty 
to  their  attractions  something  of  a  Bm'ns. 
But,  unlike  Burns,  he  attempted  no  explana- 
tion, no  \dndication  of  his  conduct,  if  such 
were  needed,  and  it  is  surprising  how  short- 
lived are  rumours  when  there  is  no  one  to 
contradict  them. 

The  old  vicar  had  ruled  his  life  according 
to  the  maxim  given  by  an  exceedingly  wise 
man  to  a  young  poHtician,  "Never  quarrel, 
never  explain,  never  fear."  He  found  it  to 
answer  wonderfully  well  on  the  whole,  and 
for  the  last  ten  years  had  placidly  increased 
in  bulk,  untroubled  by  any  enemy  other  than 
the  gout. 

A  courteous  scholarly  man,  of  a  somewhat 
florid  old-world  pohteness,  he  seemed  strangely 
out  of  place  in  this  remote  Gloucestershire 
village,  but  he  suited  the  people,  and  the  people 
suited  him.  Gallio  himself  was  not  more  care- 
less of  doctrine  than  is  the  average  Cotswold 
peasant,  whose  highest  praise  of  "passun" 
111 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

lies  in  the  phrase,  "'e  don't  never  interfere 
with  oi."  The  old  vicar  never  interfered,  not 
even  in  so  far  as  to  appoint  a  curate  when  dis- 
abled himself  by  gout. 

Had  he  worn  a  ruff  instead  of  the  orthodox 
"choker,"  he  might  have  passed  for  one  of 
his  own  Elizabethan  ancestors,  as  he  rested 
in  the  squire's  pew,  his  head  leaning  against 
the  high  oak  back. 

A  long  face,  with  high  narrow  forehead  and 
pointed  beard,  cheeks  heavy  and  creased, 
straight  nose,  with  strongly  marked  sensitive 
nostrils.  The  mouth  full-lipped  and  shutting 
firmly  under  the  grey  moustache  cut  straight 
across  the  upper  Hp.  Truly  a  fine  old  face, 
deeply  lined  and  sorrowful,  bearing  upon  it 
the  tragic  impress  of  great  possibilities,  that 
had  remained — ^possibilities. 

The  grey  coolness  of  the  Httle  Norman 
church  was  restful.  The  vicar  sighed  and 
closed  his  eyes — those  full  blue  eyes  that  had 
once  been  bold  and  winsome,  that  were  still 
keen.  The  old  live  mostly  in  the  past,  they 
are  not  often  dull  or  lonely.  At  will  they 
can  summon  a  whole  pageantry  of  love,  and 
friendship,  and  eager  strife.  The  vicar  of 
112 


Sanctuary 

Redmarley  was  much  given  to  warming  his 
hands  at  the  fires  of  recollection.  His  mem- 
ory was  excellent,  and  he  had  much  to  re- 
member, for  he  had  lived  strenuously.  Age 
had  not  dimmed  his  faculties,  his  hearing 
being  particularly  acute. 

Presently  his  good  dream  was  disturbed, 
and  he  began  to  be  annoyed  by  a  strange  little 
scraping  noise  for  which  he  could  not  account. 

It  was  almost  continuous. 

He  leant  forward  and  listened,  frowned, 
then  looked  interested,  and  finally  rose  from 
his  seat. 

The  noise  ceased. 

He  sat  down  again  and  waited.  Sure  enough 
the  sound  began  again,  and  it  was  for  all  the 
world  like  the  scratch  of  a  quill  pen  in  the  hand 
of  a  rapid  writer.  He  decided  that  it  came 
from  a  chapel  on  the  right  side  of  the  altar — 
the  chapel  in  which  his  wife  was  buried.  A 
square  sarcophagus  stood  in  the  centre,  but 
there  were  no  seats,  as  the  chapel  was  quite 
small.  Hobbling  up  the  three  steps  that  led 
to  it  from  the  body  of  the  church,  the  vicar 
looked  about  him  but  could  see  nothing,  and 
the  silence  was  unbroken. 
113 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  to  look  over  the 
tomb  which  filled  the  centre  vacant  space. 
What  he  discovered  caused  him  to  exclaim, 
more  surprisedly  than  piously: 

"God  bless  my  soul !" 

Seated  on  the  floor,  in  the  narrow  space 
which  separated  the  side  of  the  tomb  from 
the  church  wall,  was  a  young  man.  A  card 
blotting-book  lay  on  his  knees,  a  leather  ink- 
bottle  was  stuck  into  the  tracery  of  the  tomb, 
and  scattered  round  him  were  closely  written 
sheets  of  manuscript.  He  looked  up  at  the 
vicar's  exclamation,  but  made  no  attempt 
to  rise. 

"  Sir !     What  are  you  doing  here  ? ' ' 

The  vicar's  voice  was  low,  but  in  the  "Sir!'* 
there  was  infinite  rebuke. 

The  intruder  lifted  his  gaunt  face  the  better 
to  observe  his  questioner.  Then  he  pointed 
to  the  scattered  papers,  saying: 

"It  is  not  difficult  to  see." 

"But  why  do  you  write  in  my  church?" 
persisted  the  vicar,  peering  over  the  side  of 
the  tomb  at  this  strange  sacrilegious  person, 
with  a  curiosity  that  almost  mastered  his 
annoyance. 

114 


Sanctuary 

"Because  there  was  nowhere  else.  I  have 
done  no  harm  to  yoxu*  church — besides,  how 
is  it  more  your  church  than  mine?" 

"Do  you  think  you  could  come  and  con- 
verse with  me  in  the  porch  upon  this  subject? 
I  am  old-fashioned;  and  your  action  strikes 
me  as  incongruous.  Moreover,  it  tires  me  to 
stand." 

The  young  man  scrambled  to  his  feet.  Lay- 
ing his  hands  upon  the  tomb's  flat  top  he 
vaulted  Hghtly  over,  and  stood  beside  the  vicar 
on  the  wider  side  of  the  tiny  chapel. 

The  vicar  frowned,  demanding:  ' 

"Would  you  like  me  to  jump  over  your  wife's 
grave  ?i" 

A  momentary  gleam  of  amusement  lighted 
up  the  stranger's  tragic  black  eyes  as  he  noted 
the  vicar's  cumbrous  figure  and  swathed  foot. 
Then  his  expression  changed,  and  he  said 
gently: 

"I  beg  your  pardon." 

Often  in  these  last  days  he  had  found  him- 
self wondering  with  a  sort  of  tender  curiosity 
about  the  Lady  Cicely  Molyneux,  "aged 
twenty-one  years,"  who  had  lain  there  so 
long. 

115 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

When  they  reached  the  porch  the  vicar  sat 
down,  and,  pointing  to  a  place  beside  him, 
said : 

"Sit  down,  and  tell  me  what  you  mean  when 
you  say  there  is  nowhere  else?" 

The   young   man    obeyed,    saying   wearily: 

"It  is  the  simple  truth.  I  am  lodging  at 
Eliza  Heaven's,  in  the  village,  and  you  prob- 
ably know  that  there  is  no  living-room  except 
the  kitchen.  I  share  a  bedroom  with  three 
of  the  boys,  and  the  rain  comes  down  in  tor- 
rents every  day.  I  can't  tramp  about  the 
countiy — I  only  get  wet  through  and  fall  ill. 
My  holiday  lasts  ten  days — how  could  I  spend 
it  better?  The  church  was  quiet;  I  was 
under  cover.  No  one  has  ever  come  in  be- 
fore." 

The  vicar  stared  silently  at  this  strange 
youth  clad  in  threadbare  black,  with  flannel 
shirt  open  at  his  lean  throat.  He  felt  at- 
tracted to  him  in  spite  of  his  square  grim  jaw 
and  Nihilistic-looking  crop  of  thick  black 
hair.  His  voice  was  not  uncultivated  and 
the  vicar  recognised,  with  a  little  thrill  of 
pleasure,  the  soft  guttural  "r"  which  pro- 
claimed the  stranger  to  be  Welsh.  Lady 
116 


Sanctuary 

Cicely  was  Welsh,  and  for  her  sake  the  vicar 
loved  well  that  courteous  fiery  Httle  people. 

"I  am  sorry  you  should  have  had  such  a 
wet  holiday.  In  fine  weather  the  country 
round  here  is  very  beautiful,  and  you  look 
as  though  long  days  out  of  doors  would  be 
better  for  you  than  literary  work — anywhere." 

The  young  man  looked  rather  surprised  at 
the  urbanity  of  this  speech  but  it  is  difficult 
for  the  Welsh  to  be  other  than  courteous, 
even  when  they  meet  with  churls.  It  was 
easy,  therefore,  to  explain  the  position  of 
affairs  to  this  gouty  but  amiable  old  gentle- 
man. The  hunted  look  left  the  stranger's 
eyes,  the  tense  lines  round  his  mouth  relaxed 
as  he  said,  "I  work  at  a  cloth  factory  at 
Stroud.  One  of  my  mates  told  me  his  mother 
would  lodge  me  for  my  holiday — I  could  not 
afford  to  go  home — so  I  came  here.  I  am  a 
Socialist,  but  my  father  was  a  Wesleyan 
minister.  I  speak  at  Labour  meetings  in 
Stroud — that  is  my  next  speech  I  was  writing 
— ^it  is  nearly  finished." 

The  musical  voice  ceased;  the  vicar  gave 
a  little  start;  he  had  been  gazing  out  on  the 
sunlit  grass  in  the  churchyard.  Then  he 
117 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

turned  and  faced  his  new  acquaintance:  "Will 
you  let  me  read  your  speech?  It  would  in- 
terest me  greatly.  It  is  long  since  I  took  any 
active  interest  in  politics.  I  am  glad  I  found 
you  instead  of  Daniel  Long  the  clerk.  He 
would,  mth  the  best  intentions  in  life,  have 
been  rude.  I  can  understand  your  seeking 
sanctuary  in  the  church,  and,  as  you  say.  She 
belongs  to  all  of  us;  but — ^perhaps  it  is  prej- 
udice— I  had  rather  you  didn't  write  political 
speeches  there.  Will  you  come  and  write  at 
the  vicarage  instead?  You  shall  be  quite  un- 
disturbed." 

The  young  man  cleared  his  throat,  and  when 
he  spoke  his  voice  was  rather  husky:  "How 
do  you  know  I  should  not  steal  your  spoons?" 

"My  good  friend,"  the  vicar  answered  cheer- 
fully, "though  I  know  but  little  of  poHtics, 
I  know  this  much,  that  it  is  nothing  less  than 
my  whole  possessions  you  SociaHsts  want. 
Spoons,  indeed!  that's  but  a  small  part  of  it; 
and  you  don't  want  to  steal  them  either,  but 
to  take  them,  boldly  and  in  the  light  of  day, 
that  every  one  may  see  and  admire  the  redis- 
tribution— I  beheve  that  is  the  word — of 
property." 

118 


Sanctuary 

As  he  spoke  the  vicar  rose,  and,  leaning 
heavily  on  his  stick,  prepared  to  fare  forth 
into  the  sunshine  again.  The  little  •  Welsh- 
man made  no  answer,  so  the  vicar  turned  and 
put  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  sa3ang  kindly: 
"But  as  you  write,  you  probably  read.  I  have 
plenty  of  books.  You  must  come  and  see 
them.    Come  now!" 

"May  I  collect  my  papers,  sir?  I  won't 
be  a  minute."  The  voice  was  eager,  with  a 
deference  in  the  tone  which  had  been  lacking 
at  first.  The  vicar  smiled — ^that  pleasant  smile, 
which  had  won  him  so  much  goodwill.  "I 
like  these  Welshmen,"  he  thought  to  himself, 
"always  so  much  in  earnest,  always  responsive." 
Then  he  sighed  and  frowned  as  his  gouty  foot 
gave  a  warning  twinge. 

He  and  his  strange  acquaintance  walked 
through  the  churchyard  together.  At  the 
vicarage  door  the  old  man  stopped,  and,  rub- 
bing his  hands  dehghtedly,  exclaimed,  "Now 
you  are  going  to  enjoy  yourself." 

"I  am  bewildered;    Fortune  is  not  usually 

kind  to  me,"  murmiu-ed  the  stranger,  as  he 

followed  his  host  into  a  room  walled  round 

with    books.    The    vicar    sank    wearily    into 

119 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

an  armchair,  while  his  servant  arranged  his 
gouty  foot  upon  the  rest.  As  the  door  closed 
behind  the  man,  the  little  Welshman  clasped 
his  hands,  and,  standing  before  the  vicar  with 
flushed  cheeks  and  shining  eyes,  cried  breath- 
lessly: "Do  you  mean  that  I  may  take  them 
down — ^handle  them — read  them?" 

The  vicar  laughed.  "Sesame,"  said  he,  and 
waved  his  hand  towards  the  largest  bookcase. 

What  "Sesame"  meant  the  other  knew 
not,  nor  cared.  It  was  a  permission,  that 
was  enough.  He  held  out  his  work-worn 
hands,  palms  upwards,  to  the  vicar,  saying  sim- 
ply:  "They  are  clean." 

The  vicar  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  closed 
his  eyes,  quoting  softly,  as  if  to  himself:  "These 
are  all  at  your  choice;  and  life  is  short."  But 
the  stranger  did  not  hear  him,  for  he  found  him- 
self amidst  a  company  "wide  as  the  world, 
multitudinous  as  its  days,  the  chosen  and  the 
mighty,  of  every  place  and  time." 


120 


VIII 

A    COTSWOLD    BARMAID 

IT  seemed  an  odd  name  for  an  elderly  woman, 
even  when,  as  in  this  case,  she  happened  to 
be  a  barmaid:  but  some  one  with  an  eye  for 
likenesses  christened  her  "Bobby"  because  of 
a  really  striking  resemblance  to  the  statesman 
at  that  time  famiharly  known  as  "Bobby 
Lowe."  Anyway  the  name  expressed  her,  and 
Bobby  she  remained  to  the  end.  Let  it  not  be 
imagined  that  disrespect  was  so  much  as  sug- 
gested by  the  title:  she  was  the  best  respected 
woman  in  oiu-  town,  and  certainly  one  of  the 
most  influential. 

There  was  a  college,  of  a  sort,  near  the  town 
where  Bobby  lived,  and  generations  of  students 
and  the  whole  hunting  youth  of  the  country- 
side passed  through  her  kind  hands,  and  every 
man  amongst  them  will  acknowledge  that  he 
was  the  better  for  having  known  Bobby. 

It  is  to  be  supposed  that  at  one  time  she 
was  slim,  instead  of  round-about,  that  her 
121 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

abundant  white  hair  was  once  brown  or  golden, 
that  she  had  a  stor}'-  of  her  own  apart  from  the 
"Moonstone"  and  her  "boys";  but  we  took 
her  for  granted  none  the  less  thankfully  that 
we  were  apt  to  forget  how  unique  she  was,  till 
we  were  far  from  Bobby  and  the  Moonstone 
Bar. 

•  Youthful  new-comers  were  her  especial  care. 
She  not  infrequently  confiscated  their  money 
if  she  thought  they  were  going  to  "play  the 
giddy,"  only  restoring  it  when  she  considered 
they  were  capable  of  using  it  with  some  discre- 
tion. And  how  carefully  she  looked  after  the 
digestions  of  such  as  were  inexperienced  in  the 
matter  of  drinks!  "What?"  she  would  ex- 
claim, "green  chartreuse,  sir,  and  you  just  bin 
'avin'  beer!  You  really  mustn't,  sir,  you'd 
be  that  bad"  .  .  .  and  the  best  of  it  was  that 
nobody  was  ever  foolish  enough  to  resent  her 
interference. 

"If  a  holdish  man  likes  to  take  too  much," 
she  would  say  sorrowfully,  "it  isn't  me  that 
can  stop  'im,  but  with  these  young  chaps 
just  fresh  from  school,  I  must  do  my  best 
according  to  my  lights." 

What  becomes  of  the  young  chaps  fresh 
122 


A  Cotswold  Barmaid 

from  school  where  there  is  no  Bobby  to  take 
care  of  them  I  wonder. 

"As  you  know,  sir/'  she  continued,  "I 
don't  hold  with  drinkin'  for  drinkin's  sake,  but 
I  do  think  that  a  gentleman  should  be  able 
to  take  his  glass  sociable-like,  and  friendly. 
There  don't  seem  no  good  fellowship  in  them 
there  aereated  waters,  and  I'm  sure  they  ain't 
no  good  to  a  body's  inside,  by  theirselves." 

She  had  a  healthy  crop  of  prejudices,  this 
Bobby  of  ours.  Any  sort  of  blasphemy  or 
loose  talk  she  could  not  away  with.  "It's 
sort  of  natural  for  a  man  to  swear  if  he's  a 
bit  taken  to  or  a^onished,"  she  would  say  in 
lenient  mood,  "but  when  they  goes  breaking  the 
third  commandment  like  as  if  it  was  a  hold 
chipped  plate,  it  gives  me  cold  shivers  down 
my  back — that  it  do." 

She  never  expostulated,  but  her  square, 
rosy  face  got  less  square  and  less  rosy  if>  in 
her  presence,  the  conversation  waxed  too 
forcible  and  free.  At  such  times  the  offender 
would  be  warned  by  one  of  Bobby's  old  friends 
who  respected  what  he  probably  called  her 
"fads."  If  the  new-comer  profited  by  the 
warning  all  went  well,  but  if  he  offended  a 
123 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

second  time  he  was  forcibly  ejected  and  found 
himself  in  the  dark  and  draughty  covered  way 
leading  to  the  Moonstone  stables,  with  the 
explanation,  "you  can  pile  on  the  adjectives 
here,  old  chap,  but  she  doesn't  like  it." 

Bobby  was  a  sincere  believer  in  good  works, 
and  many  were  the  "boxes"  benefited  by  win- 
nings at  billiards  or  otherwise:  and  every  Sim- 
day  saw  her  slowly  taking  her  decorous  way  to 
church,  seemly  and  satin-clad,  bearing  the  very 
portliest  of  prayer  books. 

For  man  in  the  abstract,  she  had  the  greatest 
respect,  but  taken  individually,  she  looked  upon 
him  as  singularly  gullible,  and  as  requiring  much 
maternal  supervision,  both  digestively  and 
morally.  "Law!  They  may  talk  about  their 
science  and  their  chemistry  and  that,  but  bless 
you !  Just  let  one  of  them  minxes  come  along, 
and  they're  no  better  than  imbeciles,  that 
they're  not." 

The  one  human  creature  for  whom  Bobby's 
kind  heart  could  find  no  toleration,  was  a 
"minx."  And  by  "minx"  she  meant  such 
pretty  girls  of  the  shop  and  dressmaker  class, 
as  she  imagined  cherished  hopes  of  "marring 
a  gentleman."  The  idea  that  one  of  her  boys 
124 


A  Cotswold  Barmaid 

(anybody  under  thirty  was  a  "boy"  to  Bobby) 
should  get  entangled  in  the  meshes  of  a  minx, 
or  more  dreadful  still,  "marry  beneath  him" 
roused  Bobby  as  did  nothing  else.  How  she 
got  her  information  no  one  could  ever  imagine, 
but  she  always  knew  when  anything  of  the  kind 
was  afoot,  and  MachiaveUian  were  her  methods 
of  preventing  such  a  catastrophe.  More  than 
one  "county  family"  has  Bobby  to  thank  that 
no  imdesirable  daughter-in-law  has  been  added 
to  its  ranks.  People  under  twenty  she  con- 
sidered her  especial  charge.  She  gave  them 
much  homely  and  excellent  advice,  and  only 
such  drinks  as  she  deemed  suitable  to  their 
tender  years. 

When  one  of  Bobby's  old  favourites  came 
back  from  foreign  parts  the  very  first  place 
he  would  hasten  to  was  Bobby's  bar.  He 
would  lounge  in,  after  the  fashion  of  a  stranger, 
and  ask,  in  a  feigned  voice,  for  what  had  been 
his  favoiuite  drink  in  the  old  days.  But 
Bobby's  ears  were  very  quick,  one  sharp 
glance  at  the  stranger,  a  Kttle  cry  of  recogni- 
tion .  .  .  and  over  the  counter  he  leaps  and 
fast  in  his  embrace  is  the  old  barmaid's  stout, 
comfortable,  little  figure,  and  for  a  minute  or 
125 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

two  neither  she  nor  the  stranger  can  see  each 
other  very  clearly.  And  then,  what  a  talking 
over  of  old  days  there  would  be !  What  asking 
after  old  chums !  At  such  times  Bobby  would 
even  give  us  news  of  the  minxes.  Poor  pretty 
minxes,  did  any  of  you  ever  marry  gentlemen 
I  wonder?  They  were  really  very  nice  those 
minxes !  But  we  don't  remember  them  as  we 
remember  Bobby — Bobby  of  the  silver  hair  and 
little  dumpy  figure,  who  by  sheer  force  of  strong 
and  kindly  character  held  sway  over  several 
generations  of  hot-blooded  young  England. 
She  was  not  beautiful;  she  was  not,  as  the  world 
accounts  it,  clever:  but  she  was  of  the  type  of 
the  eternal  mother-woman.  "Bless  you,"  she 
would  say  with  her  broad,  confident  smile, 
"it's  easy  enough  to  manage  'em  if  only  you 
lets  'em  think  as  they're  managin'  you." 


126 


IX 

FUZZY    WUZZY's    watch 

HE  was  Billy's  little  brother,  and  we  called 
him  "Fuzzy  Wuzzy"  because  his  abun- 
dant yellow  hair  stuck  out  straight  and  bushy 
all  over  his  head.  Moreover,  at  tennis  parties 
he  was  sometimes  allowed  to  "squeege"  the 
soda  water  into  the  tall  glasses  held  out  for 
that  purpose  by  thirsty  friends;  and  they  would 
say  "Here's  to  you.  Fuzzy  Wuzzy!" 

This,  however,  is  not  a  story  of  Fuzzy 
Wuzzy,  but  of  a  man  to  whom  Fortune  had 
not  been  kind,  whereas  Fuzzy  Wuzzy  was. 

"He  is  the  rowdiest  chap  in  the  college, 
he  goes  on  the  drunk  for  days  together;  and 
yet  he's  a  perfect  gentleman,  even  when  he's 
drunk." 

We  were  all  of  us  sitting  on  the  lawn.  Fuz- 
zy's  mother  looked  up  as  Mr.  Calcraft  spoke, 
asking,  "Who  is  this  unhappy  person?'' 

"Oh,   the   'Bookie'   you  know,   that  chap 
who's   got   Vereker's   old   rooms.    Riddell   is 
his  name — ^the  professor  knows  him." 
127 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Mr.  Calcraft  waited  for  the  professor  to 
give  further  information,  but  he  said  nothing. 
Then  a  small  voice  remarked:  "/  know  Mr. 
Riddell.  He's  got  the  beautifullest  big  dog, 
and  he  gave  me  a  ride  on  its  back — I  like 
him." 

Fuzzy  was  sitting  on  my  knee — after  a 
moment's  silence  his  mother  asked,  "Do  you 
like  him,  Hugh?  Is  it  true  that  he  is  so 
wild?" 

The  professor  took  his  pipe  out  of  his  mouth. 
He  was  not  given  to  discussing  the  students, 
we  all  knew  that — ^but  this  time  he  said,  "I 
like  Riddell.  He's  a  very  clever  fellow,  and 
most  good-natured.  I  think  his  little  weak- 
nesses are  much  exaggerated.  /  have  seen  no 
sign  of  rowdiness." 

Mr.  Calcraft  laughed.  "If  you'd  been  at 
'The  Moonstone'  the  other  evening,  sir,  you 
would  have  seen  more  than  a  sign.  He  broke 
every  cue  in  the  billiard  room,  and  nearly 
threw  the  marker  out  of  the  window ! " 

"Did  he  frow  a  man  out  of  the  window?" 
exclaimed  Fuzzy  ecstatically.  "Oh,  Mr. 
Bookie  is  strong." 

There  was  a  horror-stricken  pause.  They 
128 


Fuzzy  Wuzzy's  Watch 

had  forgotten  Fuzzy.  His  mother  looked  re- 
proachfully at  Mr.  Calcraft,  and  somebody 
murmured  something  about  virginihus  puerisque. 

"If  only  the  'Bookie'  could  be  kept  sober," 
Mr.  Calcraft  remarked  apologetically,  "he 
would  be  a  splendid  chap.  He  is  all  right  for 
weeks  together,  and  is  as  hard  as  nails;  then  he 
goes  off  and  makes  an  ass  of  himself  down  town, 
and  it  makes  people  cut  him.  He  told  me  the 
other  day  that  he  doesn't  know  a  lady  in  the 
place." 

"He  is  going  to  know  one!"  said  Fuzzy's 
mother,  "he's  going  to  know  me.  I  think 
it  is  too  bad.  You  all  say  he  is  foolish,  yet 
not  one  of  you  has  the  courage  to  tell  him 
so,  I  think  it  is  a  shame." 

"He  would  be  an  awkward  chap  to  tackle," 
murmured  Mr.  Calcraft.  "He'd  throw  you 
out  of  the  window  as  soon  as  look  at  you." 

"He  can't  throw  me  out  of  the  window," 
said  Fuzzy 's  mother,  "and  I  shall  talk  to 
him.    You  must  ask  him  to  lunch,  Hugh!" 

Then  we  all  went  to  eat  gooseberries  in  the 
kitchen  garden  and  played  at  horses  with 
Fuzzy. 

The  first  day  of  the  horse  show  Riddell 
129 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

was  with  Mrs.  Ainger  all  the  time.  As  usual 
he  was  untidy.  His  tie  was  over  his  collar, 
his  collar  frayed;  he  wore  a  terrible  old  cap, 
and  the  front  of  his  coat  was  smothered  in 
dust  from  Fuzzy's  boots,  for  that  gentleman 
spent  the  greater  part  of  the  afternoon  perched 
on  Riddell's  shoulder. 

"The  Bookie"  looked  radiant,  and  carried 
off  his  lady  to  tea  in  the  tent;  I  followed, 
sitting  with  friends  at  the  next  table.  They 
looked  a  little  surprised  at  Mrs.  Ainger's 
cavaher,  for  that  lady  was  known  to  be  par- 
ticular as  to  the  men  she  admitted  to  intimacy. 

Afterwards  I  heard  all  about  it.  It  seems 
that  the  professor  had  asked  Riddell  to  lunch, 
and  that  he  had  behaved  beautifully.  He 
was  a  cultivated  man,  and  talked  well,  in 
the  softest,  most  musical  voice  in  the  world. 
His  knowledge  of  swear-words  was  the  widest 
and  most  far-reaching;  when  with  men  his 
conversation  was  so  garnished  with  oaths,  that 
one  had  to  pick  one's  steps,  as  it  were,  to  dis- 
cover what  he  was  talking  about.  But  with 
ladies,  he  was  the  most  courtly  and  careful  of 
men.  At  the  horse  show  he  had  discovered 
Mrs.  Ainger  tr}dng  to  lift  Fuzzy  to  see  over  the 
130 


Fuzzy  Wuzzy's  Watch 

heads  of  some  yokels  who  obstructed  the  view. 
In  a  moment  Riddell  had  reheved  her  of  her 
burden,  and  devoted  himself  to  her  for  the  rest 
of  the  day.  The  professor  was  counting  marks 
and  could  not  come. 

Then  ensued  a  time  of  peace  and  quiet  for 
the  Bookie.  He  followed  Mrs.  Ainger  like  a 
big  dog,  constituted  himself  head  nurse  to 
Fuzzy,  and  he  was  sober,  absolutely  sober,  for 
six  months.  When  other  ladies  met  him  con- 
stantly at  the  Aingers',  and  found  him  to  be 
not  only  harmless  but  charming,  they  also 
asked  him  to  limch  and  to  dine.  Thus  "The 
Bookie"  who  had  plenty  of  money,  and  was  of 
unexceptional  family,  became  something  of  a 
personage.  He  bought  new  clothes,  and  wore 
a  clean  straw  hat.  His  linen  was  no  longer 
frayed,  and  he  shaved  twice  a  day. 

Mrs.  Ainger  sang  his  praises  wherever  she 
went,  and  openly  declared  that  she  believed 
all  the  stories  of  his  rowdiness  to  be  slanders; 
she  had  not  seen  his  bill  for  billiard  cues  from 
the  "Moonstone." 

At  the  end  of  April  came  the  "Point  to 
Point"  steeplechase,  a  day  fatal  to  the  Bookie, 
who  was  "well  on"  by  five  o'clock  in  the  after- 
131 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

noon.  Mrs.  Ainger  was  not  at  the  races,  so 
she  was  spared  the  spectacle  of  her  protege, 
swaying  gracefully  on  the  seat  of  his  dogcart 
as  he  drove  off  the  course.  He  had  not  brought 
his  man,  and  as  he  was,  his  friends  considered, 
quite  capable  of  getting  home  in  safety,  they 
preferred  not  to  be  seen  with  him.  He  pressed 
them  courteously  to  accompany  him,  offering  to 
stand  them  a  dinner  at  the  "Moonstone." 
But  they  stood  in  awe  of  Mrs.  Ainger,  and 
not  considering  themselves  in  any  way  called 
upon  to  act  as  keeper  for  the  Bookie,  they 
let  him  alone. 

Fuzzy's  Nana  was  of  a  literary  turn,  spend- 
ing a  large  proportion  of  the  salary  she  received 
for  her  attentions  to  Fuzzy  on  the  lighter  kinds 
of  fiction.  On  this  particular  afternoon,  hav- 
ing wheeled  him  in  his  go-cart  some  distance 
along  the  high  road,  "  she  sat  her  down  upon  a 
green  bank,"  and  bidding  him  "Play  about, 
there's  a  good  boy,  and  pick  some  pretty  flowers 
for  mama!"  she  was  soon  immersed  in  a 
periodical,  bearing  a  bloodcurdling  device  upon 
the  cover. 

Fuzzy  gathered  a  bunch  of  celandines,  and 
with  them  clasped  tightly  in  his  hot,  fat  hand, 
132 


Fuzzy  Wuzzy's  Watch 

set  off  at  a  run  down  the  road,  giggUng  deHght- 
edly  when  he  discovered  that  Nana  neither 
called  him  nor  yet  started  in  pursuit. 

Trotting  gleefully  along  for  some  Httle 
distance  he  turned  off  into  an  inviting-looking 
lane.  He  kept  close  to  the  hedge  for  there  was 
a  sound  of  galloping  hoofs,  and  Fuzzy  was  an 
extremely  sensible  small  boy.  Then  there 
passed  him  a  horse  and  dogcart,  the  horse  go- 
ing at  a  hand  gallop,  the  dogcart  empty.  This 
struck  Fuzzy  as  strange,  but  then  strange  things 
do  happen  when  one  sets  forth  to  seek  adven- 
tures. So  he  girded  up  his  stocking  which  had 
become  uncomfortably  wrinkly  and  trudged  on. 

Presently  he  saw  a  man  lying  by  the  side  of 
the  road.  Now  Fuzzy  had  a  large  acquaintance 
among  road  men,  and  for  tramps  he  felt  a  real 
affection.  Had  they  not  sometimes  got  white 
rats  in  their  pockets  ?  Nay,  those  of  a  superior 
sort  even  carried  ferrets !  He  and  his  mother 
were  wont  to  bestow  pence  on  tramps,  and  on 
the  road  men,  boots  and  the  professor's  old 
coats.  In  fact  the  professor  was  often  heard 
to  complain  that  he  met  his  favourite  coat  by 
a  heap  of  stones  every  time  he  went  out.  Fuzzy 
advanced  fearlessly  to  inspect  this  weary  man, 
133 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

who  was  lying  on  his  face,  with  one  arm  doubled 
up  under  him  in  the  strangest  fashion.  The 
man  did  not  move  as  Fuzzy  came  up,  and  the 
little  boy  went  and  stood  by  the  prostrate  form, 
saying,  with  a  comical  imitation  of  his  father: — 
"Thirsty  weather,  eh?"  but  the  usual  "It 
be  that,  Master !"  did  not  follow. 

The  afternoon  was  very  still.  The  sound 
of  galloping  hoofs  and  bumping  wheels  had 
died  away  in  the  distance.  Suddenly  Fuzzy 
gave  a  little  cry — "Bookie!  Bookie  dear! 
are  you  hurted  ?  Why  do  you  lie  in  the  road  ? 
gentlemens  don't  lie  in  the  road — 0  Bookie ! 
your  foot  is  bad,  it's  all  bleedy  and  dreadful !" 

The  Bookie  did  not  answer,  "he  kind  of 
snored"  as  Fuzzy  aftei-wards  described  it.  The 
child  tried  to  turn  him  over  on  his  back,  but 
the  Bookie  being  six  foot  two,  and  propor- 
tionately broad,  and  Fuzzy  by  no  means  tall 
for  his  age,  this  proved  an  impossible  feat. 

"I'm  afraid  he's  hurted  very  bad,  his  face 
is  so  red  and  dirty,"  said  Fuzzy  to  himself. 
Then,  with  Herculean  efforts,  he  succeeded  in 
inserting  his  own  legs  under  the  Bookie's  head, 
so  that  it  rested  on  his  clean  holland  smock. 
He  stroked  the  tumbled  hair,  and  laid  his 
134 


Fuzzy  Wuzzy's  Watch 

soft  little  face  upon  the  Bookie's  hot,  prickly 
cheek.  They  remained  thus  for  what  seemed 
to  Fuzzy  an  interminable  time.  He  began  to 
grow  sleepy  himself.  His  head  nodded,  and 
finally  he  too  fell  over  on  to  his  back  sound 
asleep. 

When  the  Bookie  came  to  himself  he  lay 
still  for  a  few  minutes  collecting  his  thoughts. 
He  discovered  that  his  arm  was  certainly 
broken,  that  a  wheel  had  gone  over  his  ankle, 
that  his  face  was  resting  on  something  soft, 
and  that  not  ten  inches  from  his  fAce  was  a 
pair  of  small,  dusty  strap-shoes. 

This  last  discovery  completely  sobered  him. 
He  raised  himseK  on  his  good  arm  and  looked 
down  at  the  something  which  had  been  sup- 
porting him.  A  golden  head,  resting  on  two 
plump  arms  crossed  behind  it;  sturdy  legs, 
crushed  by  his  weight,  which  now  drew  them- 
selves up  stretching  out  again  as  if  relieved 
.  .  .  and  then  the  Bookie  reahsed  that  Fuzzy 
had  found  him,  and  had  stayed  to  keep  guard. 

"  God  help  me  for  a  drunken  beast !    and 

I  can't  carry  him  for  my  arm's  broken,"  he 

ejaculated.    He  got  up  on  to  his  knees  feeling 

very  giddy.    The  movement  woke  Fuzzy.    He 

135 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

too  was  puzzled  for  a  moment  as  to  where  he 
could  be,  then  he  saw  the  Bookie,  and,  his 
brains  not  being  muddled  by  various  "drinks" 
and  a  heavy  fall,  he  sat  up,  saying  in  his  tender 
Httle  voice:  "Are  you  hmted  much,  my  poor 
dear?    I  stayed  with  you  till  you  woked  up." 

The  Bookie  looked  at  Fuzzy  and  tried  to 
speak,  but  somehow  he  couldn't.  Fuzzy  was 
on  his  feet  in  a  moment  and  held  out  his 
grubby  hands:  "Shall  I  pull  you  up?  I  can 
pull  dad  up." 

The  Bookie  took  one  of  the  little  hands 
and  carried  it  to  his  lips,  saying  brokenly, 
"Why  do  you  love  me.  Fuzzy?  I'm  not 
worth  it." 

Fuzzy  took  no  notice  of  this  remark,  it  was 
just  one  of  those  foolish  and  irrelevant  things 
that  gro"\^Ti-up  people  have  a  habit  of  saying, 
so  he  said,  "Aren't  you  tired  of  sitting  in  the 
road?  Hadn't  we  better  go  home?  I'm  very 
hungry." 

The  Bookie  tried  again  to  get  up  on  to  his 
feet,  but  something  had  gone  wrong  with 
his  leg,  as  well  as  his  arm,  and  after  a  few 
excruciating  efforts  he  gave  it  up. 

"I'm  afraid  it's  no  go,  Fuzzy,  I  can't  walk; 
136 


P'uzzy  Wuzzy's  Watch 

you  see  I  was  pitched  out  of  the  dogcart, 
and  I'm  all  smashed  up — ^whatever  is  to  be 
done?" 

"Shall  you  be  very  lonely  if  I  go  home  and 
tell  them?"  asked  Fuzzy  with  his  arms  round 
the  Bookie's  neck,  "and  then  they  could 
bring  a  carriage  for  you;  you're  too  big  to  go 
in  my  mail  cart,  or  I'd  lend  it  to  you.  It's 
in  a  field  wiv  Nana." 

"How  on  earth  I  got  into  this  lane  I  can't 
think,  it's  right  off  the  high  road.  0  Fuzzy 
Wuzzy,  what  an  ass  I've  been !"  The  Bookie 
groaned,  and  Fuzzy  clasped  his  arms  tighter 
round  his  neck.  Then  he  wiped  his  friend's 
dirty  face  with  the  crumpled  smock,  remark- 
ing: "Your  poor  face  is  so  grubby,  and  you've 
lost  your  hat!" 

"Where's  yours?"  asked  the  Bookie. 

"I  think  it  felled  into  the  ditch!"  Fuzzy 
answered  composedly,  "but  there's  no  sun  to 
sun-stroke  us." 

"You  must  be  got  home,  old  chap;  it's 
getting  ever  so  late  and  they  will  be  anxious; 
do  you  think  you  could  go  by  yourself,  and 
tell  them  where  you  left  me?" — "a  pretty 
tale,  truly,"  thought  the  Bookie  to  himself. 
137 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Fuzzy  was  torn  by  conflicting  desires.  He 
hated  to  leave  his  wounded  friend,  and  he 
wanted  his  mother.  Finally,  having  embraced 
the  Bookie  several  times,  he  trotted  off  down 
the  lane  and  into  the  high  road  once  more. 
WTien  he  got  home  it  was  nearly  eight  o'clock. 
His  father  and  mother,  white-faced  and  anxi- 
ous, were  standing  at  the  drive  gate,  straining 
their  eyes  in  the  twilight.  Nana,  having 
searched  vainly  herself,  had  only  just  come 
back  to  confess  that  Fuzzy  was  lost.  He 
hardly  waited  to  receive  his  mother's  caresses, 
but  seizing  her  by  the  hand,  dragged  her  down 
the  road,  crying  excitedly:  "Come  quick! 
the  Bookie's  hurted  and  he's  all  alone." 

By  dint  of  much  questioning,  the  Bookie's 
whereabouts  and  the  extent  of  his  misfortunes 
were  arrived  at.  The  dogcart  and  horse  were 
captured  in  an  adjacent  village,  and  the  Bookie 
spent  a  month  indoors.  Fuzzy  went  to  see 
him  every  day,  so  did  they  all,  but  they  never 
spoke  of  the  accident.  They  played  Poker 
and  Nap  round  his  sick-bed,  and  the  beggar 
constantly  won. 

The  night  before  he  went  down  he  told  them 
about  Fuzzy.  He  forgot  to  swear  at  all  dur- 
138 


Fuzzy  Wuzzy^s  Watch 

ing  the  narrative^  but  at  the  end  he  said:  "And 
I'm  damned  if  those  dusty  strap-shoes  wouldn't 
get  between  me  and  too  much  of  the  best  cham- 
pagne ever  bottled !" 


139 


X 

THE    DAKK    LADY 

NOBODY  knew  her — that  is  to  say,  none 
of  the  other  ladies  knew  her.  She  was 
staying  at  the  "Moonstone"  for  the  hunting, 
accompanied  by  a  maid,  a  couple  of  grooms, 
and  six  horses.  The  hotel  people  called  her 
"the  Baroness."  Billy  always  spoke  of  her 
as  "that  pretty  lady";  but  then  it  is  possible 
that  admiration  for  her  daring  horsemanship 
coloured  Billy's  views. 

On  this  particular  afternoon  BUly  and  the 
luiknown  lady  found  themselves  at  the  same 
gate,  in  the  gathering  gloom  of  a  November 
afternoon,  six  good  miles  from  home.  She 
was  trying  to  lift  a  refractory  latch  with  her 
himting-crop  when  Billy  rode  up  on  his  shaggy 
sheltie,  dismounted  cap  in  hand,  and  opened 
the  gate  for  her. 

"We  seem  to  have  lost  the  others,  you  and  I. 
Shall  we  jog  home  together?"  she  asked,  as 
Billy,  having  carefully  fastened  the  gate,  fol- 
140 


The  Dark  Lady 

lowed  her  down  the  rutty  lane.  "  I'm  not  very 
sure  where  we  are;  but  I  suppose  this  lane  leads 
somewhere/'  she  continued. 

"I  know  the  way,"  answered  the  little  boy 
cheerfully.  "I  shall  be  very  glad  of  your 
company.  Jackson — that's  our  man — lamed 
the  cob  early  in  the  day  and  had  to  go  home, 
and  it's  lonely  riding  by  one's  self." 

"I  am  often  lonely,"  said  the  lady,  more 
to  herself  than  to  Billy. 

"Are  you?  So  am  I.  I'm  the  only  one 
who  hunts,  you  see;  but  I'm  going  to  school 
at  Easter,  then  I  shan't  be  lonely  any  more." 

"Are  you  glad  to  be  going  to  school?" 

"Oh,  yes!  I  shall  like  being  with  the  other 
chaps  awfully;  but,  of  course,  I  shall  miss 
my  people  .  .  .  and  the  dogs,  and  the  pony." 

"Your  people  don't  himt,  do  they?" 

"No;  we've  only  the  cob  and  my  pony. 
Mother  doesn't  hunt,  she's  too  nervous;  and 
father  doesn't  care  for  it.  Mother  drives  to 
the  near  meets  sometimes,  but  when  it  is  a 
long  way  she  hkes  Jackson  to  come  with  me 
for  the  day.  Not  that  he's  any  mortal  use," 
added  Billy  with  a  gleeful  chuckle.  "He's 
a  potterer  and  my  brother  is  too  little." 
141 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"I  wonder/'  the  lady  began,  then  stopped 
suddenly.  Billy  turned  his  rosy  face  towards 
her,  but  she  did  not  speak.  The  child,  be- 
cause he  knew  one  woman  so  well,  divined 
that  this  woman  was  tired  and  sad.  So  he, 
too,  was  silent.  The  horses'  hoofs  went  thud, 
swish,  thud,  swish,  through  the  foot-deep 
decaying  beech  leaves.  A  delicate  silver  mist 
gathered  round  the  roots  of  the  great  trees; 
like  the  bridal  veil  of  a  rosy  girl,  it  spread  it- 
seK  over  the  stretches  of  ruddy  space.  They 
had  turned  into  the  grass-carpeted  main  avenue 
of  the  Earl's  famous  park,  and  Billy  sniffed  de- 
lightedly at  what  he  called  "the  good  smell  of 
Christmas."  Happy  Billy!  to  whom  the  death 
of  summer  brought  no  sad  thoughts. 

"I'm  afraid  you  are  very  tired!"  he  said 
suddenly,  in  his  kind  boyish  voice.  "Would 
you  like  to  stop  a  bit?" 

The  lady  started.  Not,  indeed,  that  she 
had  forgotten  Billy;  she  was  in  a  subconscious 
way  basking  in  the  warmth  that  radiates  from 
all  simple  and  kindly  people.  Her  rebellious 
mood  of  the  last  weeks  had  passed.  That  mood 
in  which  she  loved  to  assert  her  fascination  for 
men;  mentally  snapping  her  fingers  in  the  faces 
142 


The  Dark  Lady 

of  her  sister  women  so  ready  to  think  evil  of  her. 
Certain  kinds  of  men  come  to  heel  easily  and 
she  felt  her  triumph  to  be  but  a  poor  one.  This 
half-hour's  companionship  of  a  friendly  little 
boy  had  altered  everything;  at  the  moment 
she  no  longer  felt  herself  to  be  the  sport  of  cir- 
cumstance; but  her  heart  ached  and  her  voice 
was  weariful  as  she  said: — "No,  we  won't  stop. 
I  am  tired,  but  we  are  only  about  three  miles 
from  home.  You  live  just  outside  the  town, 
don't  you?" 

"Yes!  at  that  tall  grey  gabled  house  where 
the  cross  roads  meet!" 

"I  have  seen  you  go  into  the  drive.  Do  you 
do  lessons — ^who  teaches  you?" 

"Partly  mother,  partly  dad.  I  am  not 
clever  at  lessons."  Billy  flushed  as  he  spoke; 
he  was  fully  aware  that  his  small  love  for 
books  was  something  of  a  reproach.  People 
expect  so  much  from  the  child  of  clever  parents. 
He  did  not  know  that  his  strongly  developed 
sporting  instincts  were  the  pride  of  his  bookish 
father's  heart;  nor  how  cheerfully  that  father 
had  foregone  many  a  rare  edition,  that  Billy 
might  ride  to  hounds.  "A  modest  lad,  a  good 
lad;  let  himx  play  about  in  the  sunshine — the 
143 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

rest  will  come."  So  Billy's  father,  who  would 
relate  with  glee  how  successfully  Billy  had 
vetoed  one  topic  of  conversation.  On  an 
evening,  not  so  very  long  ago,  Billy  had  put 
his  head  round  the  drawing-room  door,  de- 
manding, "Is  dad  going  to  talk  about  'The 
Dark  Lady  of  the  Sonnets?'  'cause,  if  he  is, 
I'm  not  coming  in.  I've  had  enough  of  hearing 
about  her." 

So  dad  vowed  he  would  talk  of  her  no  more, 
and  discussed  the  habits  of  "Pug"  with  a 
learning  that  astonished  and  charmed  Billy 
beyond  telling. 

The  much-vexed  question  of  Mary  Fitton's 
identity  with  the  "Dark  Lady  of  the  Son- 
nets" had  raged  with  violence  in  Billy's  house. 
His  father  had  written  many  articles  upon  the 
subject — articles  appearing  in  those  fat,  un- 
interesting magazines  which  littered  drawing- 
room  and  study;  in  whose  closely  printed  pages 
Billy  sought  in  vain  for  "pictures  and  conver- 
sations." He  did  wish  that  dad  wrote  for  the 
Strand. 

Curiously  enough,  as  they  rode  home  in 
the  gathering  eventide,  the  thought  jumped 
into  Billy's  head  that  the  dark  lady  of  the 
144 


The  Dark  Lady 

sonnets  must  have  been  exactly  like  the  Baron- 
ess. With  the  inconsequent  aptness  of  child- 
hood he  proceeded  to  quote  aloud  lines  learned 
to  please  his  father: 

"For  sweetest  things  turn  sourest  by  their  deeds; 
Lilies  that  fester  smell  far  worse  than  weeds." 

The  lady  pulled  up  short  and,  turning  in  her 
saddle,  asked  with  a  catch  in  her  voice,  "Why 
do  you  say  that?  What  is  it?  Where  is  it 
from?" 

"Oh,  it's  those  sonnets,  you  know — ^IVe 
learnt  lots  of  'em  to  please  my  dad." 

"But  what  made  you  quote  that  just  then?" 
persisted  the  Baroness,  her  eyes  dark  and  tragic 
with  some  nameless  fear:  "What  made  you 
quote  it  then?    Were  you  thinking  of  me?" 

Billy  blushed  and  took  off  his  cap  that  he 
might  rumple  his  hair,  a  thing  he  always  did 
when  perplexed. 

"I  was  thinking  of  you,"  he  said  at  last, 
"yet  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  you.  This 
has  though" — and,  blushing  more  than  ever, 
Billy  repeated : 

"Thine  eyes  I  love,  and  they,  as  pitying  me. 
Knowing  thy  heart,  torment  me  with  disdain; 
145 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

) 

Have  put  on  black,  and  loving  mourners  be, 
Looking  with  pretty  ruth  upon  my  pain: 
And  truly  not  the  morning  sun  of  heaven 
Better  becomes  the  grey  cheeks  of  the  east, 
Nor  that  full  star  that  ushers  in  the  even, 
Than  those  two  mourning  eyes  become  thy  face." 

Billy  stopped  breathless,  but  confident  that 
he  had  said  the  right  thing  this  time. 

"It  is  veiy  pretty!"  said  the  lady  with  a 
sigh — "but  the  other  is  tme.  ^Vhat  a  queer 
little  boy  you  are  to  repeat  poetry  like  that! 
How  old  are  you?" 

"I  shall  be  nine  at  Easter.  Then  I  go  to 
school.  Where  are  you  going  when  the  hunt- 
ing is  over?  It  ends  early  here;  we  never  kill 
a  May  fox — the  crops,  you  know." 

"I  don't  know  where  I  shall  go,  probably  to 
London,  or  to  Paris,  or — "  here  she  mur- 
mured something  in  a  language  Billy  did  not 
understand,  then,  turning  to  him,  said  dreamily: 

'"That  is  my  home  of  love:  if  I  have  ranged, 
Like  him  that  travels,  I  return  agam.' 

You  see  I  know  something  of  your  poetry 
too !    But,  wherever  I  go,  I  shall  be  lonely — 
lonely  and  sad." 
There  was  a  sound  of  tears  in  her  voice. 
146 


The  Dark  Lady 

Billy,  infinitely  distressed,  felt  that  this  mel- 
ancholy lady  must  be  cheered  and  encouraged, 
so  he  said  stoutly: 

"I've  never  seen  you  alone  before.  You've 
generally  got  Mr.  Rigby  Folaire,  or  Captain 
Garth,  or  Lord  Edward,  or  all  of  them." 

"That's  just  it,"  said  the  Baroness,  and 
Billy  was  more  puzzled  than  ever.  Feeling 
that  he  must  get  on  to  more  comprehensible 
ground,  he  asked, 

"How  did  you  lose  the  others?" 

"Probably  very  much  as  you  did.  Any- 
how, here  we  are  together,  and  I  am  very 
glad.  I  have  enjoyed  your  society  extremely. 
I  shall  remember  our  afternoon." 

The  Baroness  was  destined  to  remember, 
for  at  that  moment  Billy's  pony  put  his  foot 
in  a  rabbit  hole  and  came  down,  throwing 
the  child  with  some  violence  against  the 
trunk  of  a  tree.  They  were  riding  at  the 
edge  of  the  wood. 

The  pony  scrambled  up  and  galloped  off; 
but  Billy  lay  quite  still  in  a  pathetic  heap. 
The  Baroness  had  pulled  up  her  tall  horse 
almost  on  to  his  haunches,  for  Billy  had  been 
thrown  right  in  front  of  her.  Now,  with  the 
147 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

reins  over  her  arm,  she  was  stooping  over  the 
prostrate  Billy,  while  the  nervous  thorough- 
bred trembled  and  curvetted  beside  her. 

The  Baroness  was  noted  for  the  speed  and 
grace  with  which  she  could  mount  or  dismoimt. 

She  lifted  Billy  in  her  arms.  There  was 
a  big  bruise  on  his  temple,  and  he  seemed 
stunned  by  the  fall.  His  head  rolled  on  to 
her  shoulder,  lying  there  heavily.  Reaching 
for  her  flask  from  the  pocket  of  her  saddle, 
and  with  the  reins  still  round  her  wrist,  she  sat 
down  on  the  ground  with  Billy  in  her  arms. 
She  soaked  her  handkerchief  in  brandy,  and 
dabbed  his  forehead,  and,  as  if  to  aid  her,  there 
pattered  down  upon  his  upturned  face  the  first 
drops  of  a  cold  November  shower. 

The  Baroness  had  faced  many  dangers  in 
her  time.  To  "scenes"  of  various  kinds  she 
was  quite  inured;  but  she  trembled  as  Billy's 
face  touched  her  neck,  and  there  was  a  look  in 
her  eyes  that  neither  Mr.  Rigby  Folaire  nor 
Lord  Edward  had  ever  seen  there.  Presently 
Billy  stirred  and  opened  his  eyes,  saying  eagerly, 
"I'm  all  right,  mother!  It  wasn't  Dalgo's 
fault  I  fell  off.    It's  aU  right." 

Sitting  up  suddenly,  he  saw  the  Baroness, 
148 


The  Dark  Lady 

and  knew  where  he  was.  But  he  had  clung 
to  her — she  always  remembered  that. 

He  scrambled  to  his  feet,  exclaiming,  "I 
beg  your  pardon.  Did  I  frighten  you?  I 
am  so  sorry";  then,  turning  very  giddy, 
sat  down  again  amongst  the  wet  leaves. 

"I  wonder  if  I  ought  to  give  him  brandy," 
murmured  the  Baroness.  She  put  her  free 
arm  round  him,  while  the  tall  horse  sniffed 
inquiringly  at  them  both. 

The  white  mist  crept  higher  among  the  trees 
and  the  rain  grew  heavier.    Billy  shivered. 

"We  can't  sit  here,''  said  the  Baroness 
decidedly.  "You'll  have  to  ride  Frivolity 
in  front  of  me.  I  don't  know  where  your 
pony  is,  and  if  he  has  galloped  home  they  will 
be  in  a  dreadful  state.    So  we  must  hurry." 

"How  strong  you  are!"  said  Billy,  admir- 
ingly, as  she  swung  him  up  to  the  saddle  in 
front  of  her — "and  how  kind!"  He  put  his 
hand  on  hers  that  held  the  reins,  her  other  arm 
was  round  him.  Thus  they  rode  home  in  the 
cold  gloom  of  that  November  afternoon. 

"Billy's  late!"  said  his  mother  nervously 
as  she  poked  the  study  fire.    "I  am  always 
149 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

worried  when  he  is  out  without  Jackson; 
he  is  so  reckless,  and  Jackson  came  home 
just  before  lunch,  you  know."  Billy's  father 
pushed  his  papers  away  from  him,  and  came 
and  stood  beside  her  at  the  fire. 

"There  he  is!"  he  said,  "there's  the  drive 
gate." 

"That's  a  horse;  besides,  Billy  always  goes 
straight  to  the  yard — Oh,  can  he  be  hurt  ?  and 
some  one  has  come  to  tell  us.  Go  down  quick 
and  see." 

On  no  occasion  did  Billy  ever  go  hunting 
but  his  mother  pictured  every  possible  mis- 
hap. Had  the  child  ever  realised  her  agony 
of  apprehension  he  would  never  have  gone; 
but  she  loved  him  too  well  to  interfere  with 
his  pleasures.  "He's  such  a  manly  little  fel- 
low, "*she  would  say  when  he  came  safely  back, 
forgetting  her  dread  in  her  pride  of  him — until 
next  hunting  day. 

She  followed  her  husband  into  the  fire-lit 
hall.  The  door  stood  open.  The  well-loved 
Httle  figure  was  silhouetted  against  the  gloom, 
and  the  kind  yoimg  voice  was  persuading  some 
one  to  come  in.  "Do  come  and  have  some 
tea,"  she  heard  him  say;  then,  as  he  saw  his 
150 


The  Dark  Lady 

mother:  "It's  the  dark  lady,  dear;  she  has 
been  so  kind  to  me.    Has  Dalgo  come  home?" 

The  mother  went  out  on  to  the  steps  beside 
her  husband.  The  imknown  lady  had  already 
turned  her  horse  preparatory  to  departure,  but 
waited  just  to  say  in  short,  jerky  sentences: 

"Your  little  boy  was  thrown,  and  the  pony 
ran  away.  I  thought  it  best  to  bring  him  home 
without  looking  for  the  pony.  He  fell  with 
some  force  against  a  tree,  but  I  don't 
think !" 

"Won't  you  come  in?"  asked  Billy's  mother, 
going  down  into  the  rain  beside  her  guest,  A 
great  many  considerations  flashed  into  her  mind, 
but — "and  let  me  thank  you." 

The  soft  voice  was  so  like  Billy's.  For  a 
moment  the  Baroness  wavered.  She  looked 
somewhat  wistfully  into  the  hall  where  the 
ruddy  firelight  danced  on  the  old  oak  furni- 
ture, but  she  gave  a  little  wriggle  on  her  saddle 
and  said  lightly  and  in  the  voice  that  jarred, 
"Thanks !  but  I'm  far  too  wet.  I  must  go 
home  and  change.  The  boy  is  wet.  I  hope 
the  pony  will  turn  up  all  right,"  and  with  that 
she  rode  out  of  the  drive. 

Billy  spent  some  days  in  bed  with  concussion 
151 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

of  the  brain.  He  talked  constantly  of  his 
"dark  lady"  to  the  bewilderment  of  his  mother, 
who  had  no  idea  how  firmly  he  was  imbued 
with  the  notion  that  his  dark  lady  was  the  dark 
lady — "of  the  sonnets/'  as  he  always  piously 
concluded. 

As  for  the  lady — ^when  Billy's  father  went 
down  to  the  "Moonstone"  that  very  evening 
in  the  pouring  rain,  to  thank  her  for  her  kind- 
ness to  his  little  son,  she  was  declared  to  be 
engaged  and  would  see  no  one. 

When  Billy's  mother  went  next  morning 
she  was  told  that  the  Baroness  had  gone  to 
town  the  night  before.  Her  servants  and 
her  horses  followed  her,  and  the  hunt  knew 
her  no  more.  She  left  no  address.  Mr. 
Rigby  Folaire  and  Lord  Edward  inquired  her 
whereabouts  in  vain.  But  Billy  knew  she 
had  "gone  back  into  the  sonnets";  for  had  she 
not  said,  as  they  rode  home  in  the  rain  that 
afternoon, 

"That  is  my  home  of  love:  if  I  have  ranged 
Like  him  that  travels,  I  retm-n  again"? 

Billy  was  sure;    and  even  Billy's  father  has 
given  up  talking  about  Mary  Fitton. 
152 


XI 

HER  FIEST  APPEARANCE 

SOMEHOW  or  other  it  got  noised  abroad  in 
the  town  that  Lady  Valeria  was  coming  to 
church  the  very  next  Sunday. 

The  town  was  much  interested.  There  are 
people  who  speak  of  our  town  as  a  "village." 
Such  people  are  lacking  in  all  sense  of  propor- 
tion. We  pity  them,  and  try  to  ignore  the  in- 
sult. 

But  to  return  to  Lady  Valeria.  For  nearly 
four  years  we  have  had  her  in  our  midst.  At 
first  she  was  known  as  "the  Earl's  baby";  but 
her  appearance  and  character  were  such  that 
she  speedily  achieved  a  distinct  entity,  and  now 
her  doings  are  chronicled  with  extreme  minute- 
ness. 

"  Mammy  dear !  Mammy  dear ! "  said  Lady 
Valeria,  "what  does  God  do  in  church?" 

Her  mother  looked  puzzled  for  a  moment, 
then  she  said,  "He  listens  to  our  prayers,  and 
to  the  psalms  and  hymns  we  sing." 
153 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"Will  He  speak  to  me,  mammy  dear?  Will 
He  want  to  kiss  me?" 

Most  people  wanted  to  kiss  Lady  Valeria; 
she  was  quite  used  to  it. 

"We  cannot  see  God/'  answered  the  Count- 
ess gravely. 

"Why,  mammy  dear?"  asked  the  persistent 
treble  voice,  "what  does  He  hide  for?" 

The  Countess  looked  beseechingly  at  her 
husband,  but  he  would  not  come  to  her  assist- 
ance; he  went  and  looked  out  of  the  window, 
and  his  shoulders  shook.  He  gave  her  no  help 
in  these  matters — no  help  at  all — and,  really, 
there  never  was  a  more  inquiring  child  than 
Lady  Valeria. 

"I'd  like  to  see  God,  mammy  dear!  why 
can't  I?" 

"We  can  none  of  us  see  God — yet,"  said  her 
mother,  gently;  "we  shall  see  Him  some  day  if 
we  are  good.  Now  listen,  sweetheart,  you 
must  be  perfectly  quiet  in  church,  and  not  talk 
at  all;  you  must  do  whatever  I  do.  Remember, 
it  is  God's  House,  and  we  go  there  to  thank 
Him  for  all  He  gives  us,  and  to  pray  to  Him 
for  help  to  do  right." 

Lady  Valeria's  face  was  very  solemn,  and 
154 


Her  First  Appearance 

she  held  it  up  to  be  kissed,  and  she  made 
many  protestations  with  regard  to  the  ex- 
treme decorum  of  her  conduct  when  Sunday 
should  come.  Then  the  head  nurse  appeared 
and  carried  her  off  to  nursery  tea. 

Her  parents  had  misgivings  as  to  the  sobriety 
of  her  behaviour  in  church.  The  Countess 
felt  nervous  and  said  so;  as  for  the  Earl,  he 
laughed  and  loved  her,  but  he  said  that  nothing 
would  induce  him  to  accompany  his  daughter 
to  church  next  Sunday  afternoon.  Hers  was 
a  character  of  much  originaHty.  She  acted 
with  decision,  and  always  unexpectedly;  and 
the  little  Countess,  who  was  only  nineteen 
years  older  than  her  daughter,  often  felt  that 
the  baby  girl  was  the  stronger  of  the  two. 

There  was  a  pleasant  flutter  of  expectation 
among  the  Simday-school  children,  and,  in- 
deed,  among  the  congregation  generally,  at 
the  children's  service  on  that  memorable 
Sunday  when  Lady  Valeria  first  came  to  church. 
Since  her  own  christening,  and  that  of  her  small 
brother,  nothing  so  exciting  had  occurred.  The 
Earl's  seat  was  high  up  in  the  centre  aisle,  in 
full  view  of  the  congregation.  As  the  young 
Coimtess  walked  in,  leading  her  little  daughter 
155 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

by  the  hand,  she  had  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  the 
kindly  inquisitive  eyes  of  the  entire  congrega- 
tion, an  unusually  large  one.  She  blushed  very 
much,  for  she  was  a  shy  little  lady,  who  loved 
to  go  her  gracious  way  quietly  and  unobserved. 
Not  so  Lady  Valeria — ^from  her  earliest  infancy 
she  had  been  taught  to  give  pleasure  by  her 
pretty  smiles,  and  that  to  "notice  people"  was 
one  of  the  most  binding  of  her  obligations. 
Though  certainly  no  Pharisee,  she  dearly  loved 
"greetings  in  the  market-place,"  and  as  she 
trotted  up  the  aisle  she  nodded  gaily  to  her  ac- 
quaintances, who  were  there  in  large  numbers. 
She  waved  her  fat  hand  to  the  curate  as  he  took 
his  seat  in  the  choir,  much  to  his  confusion. 

In  the  choir  were  two  of  the  lodge-keeper's 
sons.  Their  white  garments  had  for  the  nonce 
concealed  their  identity;  but  presently  Lady 
Valeria  recognised  them,  and,  mounting  a  high 
hassock,  she  nodded  and  waved  ecstatically — 
she  felt  so  sure  they  would  be  dehghted  to  see 
her  in  church.  She  wondered  why  they  looked 
so  red,  and  why  they  did  not  pull  their  front 
locks  and  grin,  as  they  were  wont  to  do  when  she 
passed  them  in  the  pony  carriage.  She  felt 
chilled  and  disappointed  at  this  lack  of  re- 
156 


Her  First  Appearance 

sponsiveness  on  the  part  of  so  many  of  her 
friends. 

The  service  began.  Lady  Valeria  carefully 
copied  her  mother  and  made  no  sound.  That 
lady,  who  had  not  noticed  "the  nods,  and 
becks,  and  wreathed  smiles"  which  marked 
her  daughter's  entrance,  felt  her  cheeks  begin 
to  cool  and  was  conscious  of  a  hope  upspring- 
ing  that  her  temerity  in  bringing  Lady  Valeria 
to  church  was  to  be  triumphantly  vindicated. 

Suddenly,  however,  in  the  middle  of  the 
psalms,  which  were  read  in  alternate  verses 
by  vicar  and  congregation,  she  noticed  that, 
in  the  congregation's  verse,  somebody  was 
saying  in  a  triimiphant  sing-song: 

"There  was  a  lady  loved  a  swine. 

*  Honey ! '  said  she, 
'Pighog,  wilt  thou  be  mine?' 

'HuncI' saidhe." 

The  final  "hunc"  was  a  life-like  imitation 
of  one  of  the  Earl's  prize  pigs.  The  verse  in 
question  happened  to  be  shorter  than  Lady 
Valeria's,  and  she  finished  after  the  congrega- 
tion. 

The  curate  turned  purple,  and  the  vicar's 
157 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

voice  trembled.  The  Countess  blushed  redder 
than  before,  and,  stooping  down,  whispered, 
"You  mustn't  say  anything,  darling  1" 

Lady  Valeria  looked  up  in  pained  surprise. 

"Every  one  else  is  talking,  mammy  dear. 
I'm  sure  God  wouldn't  mind." 

Her  mother  shook  her  head  again,  and 
Lady  Valeria  relapsed  into  a  wondering  and 
somewhat  injured  silence.  Why  should  those 
Sunday-school  children  be  allowed  to  bawl 
out  all  sorts  of  seemingly  irrelevant  remarks, 
while  she  was  checked  for  one  Httle  tiny 
rhyme?  Truly,  church  was  a  puzzling  place. 
She  sighed,  and  pulled  off  her  gloves,  then  she 
rolled  them  into  a  neat  ball  and  played  catch 
with  them.  But  she  was  no  hand  at  catch, 
and  the  gloves  fell  with  a  soft  "plop"  into  the 
aisle.  Her  mother  looked  up  at  the  little 
sound  and  again  shook  her  head.  Lady 
Valeria  yawned. 

Then  something  happened.  There  was  a 
scuffling  at  the  back,  and  the  vicar's  wife, 
who  is  a  strict  disciplinarian,  marched  up  the 
aisle  propelling  a  small  boy  in  front  of  her — 
the  very  small  boy  who  was  the  cause  of  the 
disturbance.  Lady  Valeria  nearly  fell  off  her 
158 


Her  First  Appearance 

stool  in  her  excitement.  The  procession  of 
two,  the  pusher  and  the  pushed,  passed  the 
Earl's  pew,  and  reached  the  big  brass  bird, 
whose  classification  had  been  puzzling  Lady 
Valeria  for  the  last  ten  minutes.  The  vicar's 
wife  left  the  small  boy  just  beside  the  big  bird, 
and  marched  down  the  aisle  again.  The  h3Tiin 
finished,  the  vicar  went  into  the  pulpit  and 
gave  out  the  text.  Thomas  Beames,  the  cul- 
prit, stuffed  his  fists  into  his  eyes,  and  wept 
copiously,  but  silently.  There  he  would  have 
to  stand,  pubHcly  disgraced,  with  his  back 
in  full  view  of  the  congregation  for  the  rest 
of  the  service. 

"I'll  turn  dissenter,  I  will !"  vowed  Thomas, 
in  his  miserable  soul.  "I'll  vote  yallow  when 
I  be  growed  a  man.  I  won't  cap  she,  when  I 
do  meet  her  in  the  street." 

The  vicar's  voice  exhorting  the  children  to 
industry,  sobriety,  and  universal  charity  fell 
on  deaf  ears  as  far  as  Thomas  was  concerned. 
But  what  he  did  hear  was  the  soft  patter  of 
little  feet  behind  him,  then  came  a  pull  at  his 
arm  by  two  small  impatient  hands.  He  took 
his  fists  out  of  his  eyes,  and  looked  down  to 
see  Lady  Valeria  standing  beside  him.  Her 
159 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

blue  eyes  were  full  of  pity,  and  she  said  very 
softly  and  distinctly,  "Don't  ky,  Httle  boy! 
there's  plenty  of  room  in  our  seat!"  and  be- 
fore the  astonished  Thomas  could  demur,  one 
of  the  imperative  little  hands  had  seized  his, 
and  pulled  him  into  the  Earl's  pew,  where  he 
sat  crimson  and  desperately  uncomfortable 
for  the  rest  of  the  service;  but  he  was  not 
quite  so  sure  that  he  would  vote  "y allow  when 
he  were  growed  a  man."  The  sermon  was 
long.  The  vicar  felt  this  flying  in  the  face  of 
law  and  order  must  be  lived  or  preached  down. 

Lady  Valeria  yawned  again.  Heedless  of 
the  precepts  of  St.  Paul,  she  removed  her  hat. 
Then  she  leaned  her  head  against  her  mother's 
shoulder  and  slept. 

She  slept  all  through  the  sermon;  even  the 
singing  of  the  closing  hymn  did  not  awake  her. 

The  school  children,  including  the  now  re- 
pentant Thomas  Beames,  had  clattered  out, 
and  still  the  Lady  Valeria  slept. 

Her  mother  kissed  and  woke  her,  and  as 
they  walked  across  the  sunny  market-place. 
Lady  Valeria  remarked  cheerfully,  "Mammy 
dear,  mammy  dear!  I  like  church,  you  feels 
so  nice  and  fresh  when  you  comes  out !" 
160 


XII 
"our  fathers  have  told  us" 

RIDGE  WAY  came  in  with  the  morning 
.  paper  while  Johnny  was  still  at  break- 
fast. Johnny  was  late,  but  at  the  beginning 
of  the  holidays  he  generally  was  late  unless 
it  happened  to  be  a  hunting  morning. 

Something  had  evidently  stirred  Ridgeway 
out  of  his  usual  stately  calm,  for  instead  of 
bringing  in  the  paper  neatly  folded  upon  a 
salver,  he  held  it  open  in  his  hand,  and  his 
hands  were  shaking. 

"It's  all  here,  Master  Johnny!"  he  cried. 
"Bobs  'e  spoke  and  Lord  Curzon  'e  spoke, 
and  the  King  and  the  Viceroy  sent  messages 
and  no  end  of  notes  besides:  and  to  think  of 
it!  the  General  was  there  to  'ear  it  aU.  An' 
that  gentleman  wot  writes  the  books  you're 
so  fond  of,  he  was  there  an'  'e  wrote  an  hymn 
specially  for  the  occasion." 

Johnny  snatched  the  paper  and  Ridgeway 
161 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

retired  to  the  sideboard,  where  he  stood  with 
his  back  to  Johnny,  blowing  his  nose  and 
clearing  his  throat  in  a  highly  unprofessional 
fashion. 

"I'm  glad  grandfather  was  there,"  Johnny 
said  presently.  "Don't  you  wish  you'd  been 
there,  Ridgeway?  But  I  suppose  you  were 
bom  a  bit  too  late  .  .  .  you  were  bom  after 
the  Mutiny,  weren't  you?" 

"Bless  you,  yes.  Master  Johnny.  Why, 
'owever  old  do  you  think  I  am?" 

"Everybody  seems  rather  old  in  this  house 
after  school,  you  know,"  Johnny  explained 
apologetically.  "At  school  there's  fifty  chaps, 
and  Hatton  Major's  the  eldest  and  he's  just 
fourteen  and  seven  months.  He's  leaving 
this  term.  I  shall  be  leaving  at  midsummer, 
you  know,  for  then  I  shall  be  fourteen. 
When'U  grandfather  be  back,  Ridgeway?" 

"The  General  said  'e'd  telegraph  this  morn- 
ing. I  expect  'e's  a  bit  tired  after  that  dinner. 
My  word !  it  must  have  been  a  fine  sight — all 
those  old  chaps,  and  the  officers,  all  with  their 
medals  and  their  orders  on.  Somethin'  like 
a  Tamash  that  was.    They've  seen  a  deal,  they 


162 


"Our  Fathers  Have  Told  Us" 

Johnny  rose  from  table  with  the  paper  still 
in  his  hand.  "I  think,"  he  said,  "that  grand- 
father would  wish  all  the  servants  to  hear 
what's  m  this  paper,  and  I'd  hke  to  read  it  to 
them.  Please  tell  them  to  come  here  at  once, 
Ridgeway." 

The  long  line  of  servants  filed  into  the  room 
just  as  they  did  when  the  General  was  at 
home  to  read  prayers.  And  Johnny,  fair- 
haired,  round-faced,  and  ever  so  serious,  stood 
up  before  them  all  to  read  aloud  about  the 
dinner  that  the  proprietors  of  a  great  news- 
paper had  given  to  the  survivors  of  the  In- 
dian Mutiny  of  1857. 

Everybody  was  impressed;  and  the  cook, 
who  was  fat  and  full  of  sensibility,  wept 
audibly. 

Johnny's  voice  did  not  falter  except  when 
he  stumbled  over  one  or  two  of  the  long  words 
in  some  of  the  speeches,  till  he  came  to  what 
Ridgeway  called  "the  hymn"  written  by  Mr. 
Rudyard  Kipling. 

"One  service  more  we  dare  to  ask: 
Pray  for  us,  heroes,  pray, 
That  when  Fate  lays  on  us  our  task. 
We  do  not  shame  the  day." 
163 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

As  he  reached  this  last  verse  his  voice 
broke. 

"That's  all,"  he  said  hastily,  "and  thank 
you  ver}?-  much  for  listening."  Then  he  fled 
to  the  stables,  bearing  the  precious  newspaper 
with  him  that  he  might  read  it  all  over  again 
to  the  General's  groom  and  the  stable  boys. 

Johnny  was  the  youngest  of  a  long  line  of 
soldiers  and  civilians  who  had  served  our  In- 
dian Empire.  Father  and  mother  were  still 
in  India,  though  they  were  coming  home  be- 
fore the  hot  weather  and  mother  would  prob- 
ably not  go  out  again.  Johnny,  himself, 
always  talked  of  "going  back"  when  he  should 
be  through  Sandhurst;  although  he  had  left 
India  for  good  at  four  years  old.  Yet  he  heard 
"the  East  a-caUing"  with  the  same  loud  im- 
perative call  that  all  his  race  had  so  ungrudg- 
ingly obeyed. 

Johnny  adored  the  works  of  Mr.  Rudyard 
Kipling.  His  nursery  days  had  been  enriched 
and  enchanted  by  the  "Jungle  Books"  and 
"Just  So  Stories";  and  as  he  grew  older  he 
chose  out  for  enthusiastic  admiration  certain 
heroes  from  among  the  short  stories,  heroes 
who  were  to  him  a  never-failing  inspiration 
164 


"Our  Fathers  Have  Told  Us" 

and  example.  He  was  sure,  of  course,  that 
Mr.  Kipling  was  "a  real  person/'  but  he  was 
infinitely  more  confident  that  Bobby  Wicks 
and  John  Chinn  and  Georgie  Cottar  had  ac- 
tually existed,  did  actually  exist,  except  poor 
Bobby  Wicks  who  died  of  cholera.  They  were, 
in  fact,  far  more  manifest  to  the  mind  of 
Johnny  than  the  man  privileged  to  chronicle 
their  doings.  It  was  beastly  bad  luck  that 
Bobby  Wicks  had  died:  it  always  made  him 
want  to  kick  his  best  friend  for  at  least  an 
hour  afterwards  when  he  read  that  story.  All 
the  same,  Bobby  had  not  died  in  vain,  for  his 
cheery,  unconscious  heroism  had  kindled  in 
the  breast  of  at  least  one  small  boy  a  steady 
flame  of  patriotism  and  the  passionate  hope 
that  when  his  time  should  come  he,  too, 
might  serve  and  suffer  with  the  men  he  hoped 
one  day  to  lead. 

That  mild  December  morning,  as  he  rode 
alone  along  the  muddy  lanes,  Johnny's  mind 
was  full  of  the  Mutiny,  and  his  heart  grew 
big  within  him  as  he  thought  of  the  men  whose 
dangers  his  grandfather  had  been  privileged 
to  share. 

When  he  got  back  to  lunch  he  found  a  long 
165 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

telegram  from  the  General  saying  that  certain 
old  friends  who  had  come  up  for  the  Mutiny- 
dinner  had  persuaded  him  to  stay  one  more 
night  in  town,  but  that  he  would  motor  back 
very  early  on  Christmas  morning  in  plenty  of 
time  for  church.  Johnny  felt  a  bit  disap- 
pointed, but  he  went  to  tea  with  some  cheery 
neighbours  where  there  was  assembled  a  large 
and  youthful  party,  and  he  dined  in  solemn 
state  with  Ridgeway  in  attendance.  After 
dinner  he  arranged  his  gifts  for  grandfather 
and  the  servants  and  was  quite  ready  for  bed 
when  bed-time  came.  He  said  his  prayers  with 
his  usual  precipitation :  but  when  he  had  finally 
besought  blessings  upon  "father  and  mother 
and  grandfather  and  all  my  kind  friends"  he 
found  himself  still  upon  his  knees  repeating: 

"One  service  more  we  dare  to  ask: 
Pray  for  us,  heroes,  pray. 
That  when  Fate  lays  on  us  our  task. 
We  do  not  shame  the  day." 

"How  rummy  of  me!"  quoth  Johnny  to 
himself  as  he  snuggled  down  in  bed.  "I've 
got  that  Mutiny  dinner  on  the  brain."  And 
then  he  fell  asleep. 

166 


"Our  Fathers  Have  Told  Us" 

Later  on  he  began  to  dream.  He  dreamt 
that  he  was  in  the  sick-room  at  school  and 
that  he  had  a  very  bad  cough — a  tickling  tire- 
some, choking  cough.  He  implored  the  ma- 
tron to  give  him  some  water,  but  she  only 
laughed  at  him  and  hurried  out  of  the  room. 
And  the  cough  grew  worse  and  worse  tiU  he 
thought  he  should  choke.  It  was  so  unlike 
matron,  too,  to  be  hard-hearted  and  unsym- 
pathetic, that  Johnny  grew  very  angry,  and 
he  tried  to  shout  at  her  but  the  cough  wouldn't 
let  him.  Still,  he  must  have  managed  to  make 
a  considerable  noise,  for  the  soimd  of  his  own 
voice  woke  him  up,  and  as  he  opened  his  eyes 
they  began  to  smart  violently.  He  sat  up  in 
bed  still  coughing  and  choking,  and  it  was 
gradually  revealed  to  him  that  the  room  was 
full  of  smoke. 

Now  Johnny  had  no  fire  in  his  bedroom, 
for  the  whole  house  was  heated  by  hot  pipes. 
Not  long  ago,  too,  grandfather  had  put  in  the 
electric  light.  Johnny  pressed  the  button  at 
the  head  of  his  bed,  but  no  light  came. 

He  sat  perfectly  stiU  for  a  few  seconds, 
realising  the  while  that  the  house  must  as- 
suredly be  on  fire  somewhere.  Then  he  leaped 
167 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

out  of  bed  and  flung  his  window  wide  open. 
He  hung  out  of  the  window  and  filled  his  lungs 
with  the  good  fresh  air. 

He  was  wideawake  now  and  quite  able  to 
understand  that  there  was  danger.  His  first 
impulse  was  to  get  out  of  the  window  and 
scramble  down  into  safety  by  the  ivy  on  the 
wall.  His  room  was  on  the  first  floor,  the 
rooms  were  low  and  old-fashioned,  and  he  had 
done  it  before.  Just  as  he  was  preparing  to 
scramble  out  he  remembered  the  servants. 
The  women  all  slept  at  the  end  of  a  long  pas- 
sage (which  went  the  whole  length  of  the 
house)  through  a  swing  door.  Johnny's  end 
was  quite  unoccupied,  as  grandfather  had 
taken  his  own  man  with  him;  the  lady  who 
did  the  housekeeping  had  gone  back  to  her 
own  home  for  Christmas,  and  there  were  no 
visitors  just  then.  Ridgeway  slept  in  a  wing 
room  built  over  the  pantry  close  to  the  back 
staircase.  Half-way  down  the  passage  was 
the  turret  staircase,  and  in  the  turret  hung 
the  great  bell  to  be  rung  to  rouse  the  servants 
in  case  of  fire  or  sudden  illness. 

Johnny  drew  in  his  head  and  turned  back 
into  his  room.  The  smoke  was  not  quite  so 
168 


"Our  Fathers  Have  Told  Us" 

bad  now,  but  it  was  very  dark.  He  opened 
the  door,  and  as  he  did  so  there  flowed  in  great 
waves  and  gusts  of  smoke  that  drove  him  back 
into  the  room  again. 

It  would  be  much  easier  to  get  out  of  the 
window  and  go  round  to  ring  the  front-door 
bell,  or  throw  stones  at  the  servants'  windows, 
or  do  anything  rather  than  face  that  stinging, 
stifling  darkness  which  was  not  black  but 
grey. 

It  drove  him  back  to  the  window  again, 
the  window  with  its  easy  drop  out  into  the 
safe,  kind  night  of  stars  and  watery  moon  and 
cold  wet  air. 

But  the  servants!  How  was  he  to  warn 
the  servants  ? 

And  the  fire  might  be  spreading.  He  felt 
his  way  to  the  washstand  and  dipped  one  of 
the  towels  in  water.  He  wrapped  it  round 
his  neck  like  a  muffler,  covering  mouth  and 
nose,  and  then  he  opened  his  door  again,  ran 
down  the  smoke-packed  passage  as  fast  as 
he  could;  and  up  the  Httle  staircase  to  the 
belfry,  where  he  feU  gasping,  for  the  acrid 
smoke  was  terrible. 

Here  it  was  better,  for  the  belfry  tower  was 
169 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

open  to  the  night.  Johnny  seized  the  rope 
and  pulled  for  dear  life.  How  long  must  he 
ring  before  they  would  all  be  roused  ? 

It  was  a  big,  loud  bell:  he  heard  it  clanging 
overhead,  and  insensibly  it  seemed  to  swing 
to  the  rhythm  of  these  words: 

Pray  for  us,  heroes,  pray, 
That  when  Fate  lays  on  us  our  task. 
We  do  not  shame  the  day." 

Johnny's  arms  were  tired  and  his  bare  feet 
were  cold.  Would  they  hear?  Had  he  rung 
long  enough?  Might  he  go  back  to  his  room 
now  and  get  out  of  the  window? 

The  smoke  was  creeping  up  into  the  belfry. 
It  was  the  smoke,  of  course,  that  made  the 
tears  come  into  his  eyes. 

Clang,  clang,  clang,  clang — clang,  clang! 

Johnny  loosed  the  rope  for  a  minute  and 
listened. 

Yes;  he  heard  shouts. 

They  were  roused,  then:  just  a  few  more 
pulls  and  he  might  go. 

The  terrified  maidservants  came  huddling 
down  the  back  staircase  and  out  at  the  back 
door.  Men  came  from  the  stables,  and  the 
170 


"Our  Fathers  Have  Told  Us" 

lodge,  and  the  gardeners'  cottages,  and  Ridge- 
way  dropped  from  his  window,  for  he  could 
not  face  the  smoke  in  the  passage. 

The  fire  was  in  the  front  of  the  house  in  the 
main  wing;  the  dining  room  was  undoubtedly 
in  flames,  and  the  men  went  round  to  the  front 
with  the  hose  while  one  of  the  grooms  galloped 
off  to  the  nearest  town  for  the  fire-engine. 

Ridgeway  was  the  last  to  join  the  fright- 
ened group  outside  the  back  door,  and  his 
first  question  was,  "Where's  Master  Johnny?" 

It  took  several  minutes  of  most  violent 
language  before  he  discovered  that  no  one 
had  seen  Master  Johnny,  but  his  window  was 
open,  and  he  must  have  got  out  that  way: 
"he  was  active  as  a  cat." 

But  Johnny  was  not  with  the  men. 

"Who  rang  the  alarm  bell?"  Ridgeway 
shouted. 

Apparently  no  one  had  rung  the  alarm  bell. 

A  ladder  was  set  against  Johnny's  window, 
and  Ridgeway  went  up  and  into  Johnny's 
room. 

Twice  the  volumes  of  smoke  drove  him  back 
from  the  door,  for  Ridgeway  had  never  done 
fire-drill  at  school,  and  knew  nothing  of  the 
171 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

advantages  of  a  wet  towel;  but  the  third  time 
he  made  a  dash  down  the  passage  and  reached 
the  belfry  stairs.  At  the  foot  of  the  steps  he 
trod  upon  something  soft  and;  stooping,  picked 
up  Johnny  in  his  arms  and  staggered  back 
again. 

When  he  appeared  at  the  window  with  his 
biu-den  the  men  sent  up  a  cheer,  but  Ridgeway 
gave  a  hard,  dry  sob  and  muttered,  ''If  'e's 
dead  Fm  goin'  back  into  the  'ouse;  I'll  never 
face  the  General." 

All  the  same  Ridgeway  was  the  first  to  face 
the  General  when  that  aged  warrior  arrived 
at  his  drive  gate  early  on  Christmas  morning. 
He  faced  the  General  with  the  intelligence 
that  he  would  find  his  dining-room,  his  hall, 
and  a  great  part  of  his  staircase  a  mass  of 
charred  ruins  by  reason  of  the  fusing  of  the 
wires  of  the  recently  installed  electric  light. 
And  Ridgeway  further  related  that  to  the 
General  which  almost  consoled  him  for  the 
state  of  chaos  in  which  he  found  his  house- 
hold. 

The  General's  own  man  had  got  out  when 
Ridgeway  stopped  the  motor  at  the  drive 
gate.  He  and  Ridgeway  stood  side  by  side 
172 


"Our  Fathers  Have  Told  Us" 

at  the  door  of  the  brougham  while  Ridgeway 
spoke. 

"You've  made  it  pretty  clear  that  the  boy 
saved  the  lot  of  you,"  said  the  General.  "But 
who  the  dickens  fetched  the  boy  out  of  all 
that  smother?    Tell  me  that,  now!" 

Ridgeway  passed  his  hand  over  his  very 
rough  chin  and  looked  foolish,  saying  never 
a  word. 

"Get  in,  man!"  said  the  General,  "get  in. 
Do  you  think  we  can  loaf  about  here  all  day — 
get  in!"  and  the  General  dragged  Ridgeway 
into  the  motor  with  both  hands. 

As  the  motor  rounded  the  last  comer  of 
the  drive,  the  General  beheld,  as  through  a 
mist,  a  Httle  figure  in  an  Eton  jacket  stand- 
ing outside  the  bulged  and  blackened  front 
door. 

The  figure  waved  cheerfully  and  ran  to 
assist  the  General  to  alight. 

The  old  soldier  grasped  Johnny  by  the 
shoulder  and  shook  him  gently: 

"You're  a  nice  person  to  leave  in  charge!" 
he  roared.  "What  have  you  got  to  say  for 
yourself,  hey?" 

Johnny  grinned.  '''You're  very  well  up 
173 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

to  time,  sir,"  he  said  cheerily.  "We'll  have 
to  have  breakfast  in  the  housekeeper's  room, 
for  you  never  saw  such  a  beastly  mess  in  all 
your  life!'' 


174 


XIII 

A   GIOTTO  OF  THE   COTSWOLDS 

WHEN  Mary  Cardross  first  saw  Jethro 
he  was  six  years  old,  and  still  wore 
petticoats.  He  was  not  particularly  small 
for  his  age,  and  his  appearance  was,  to  say 
the  least  of  it,  pecuHar.  A  cotton  frock,  made 
with  skirt  and  body  like  a  housemaid's  morn- 
ing dress,  reached  to  his  ankles;  and  he  seemed 
to  have  very  httle  underneath,  for  his  outer 
garment  hung  limp  and  straight  from  waist 
to  heel,  except  on  Sundays,  when,  fresh  from 
the  hands  of  his  aunt,  it  stuck  out  all  round 
like  a  lamp-shade.  His  hair,  cropped  very 
short  round  the  edges,  was  several  inches  long 
on  the  crown.  Mrs.  Gegg,  by  courtesy  his 
"aunt,"  did  not  even  put  a  basin  on  his  head 
by  way  of  guide  in  the  shearing,  but,  brushing 
all  the  hair  forward  from  the  centre  of  the 
crown,  laid  the  scissors  against  his  forehead, 
and  cut  the  hair  close  to  the  skin  all  roimd. 
175 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

It  grew  again  quickly,  and  stuck  out  above  his 
temples  like  a  new  straw  thatch. 

"Isn't  he  rather  a  big  boy  for  petticoats?" 
Mary  asked,  as  her  landlady  removed  the 
supper,  pausing  at  intervals  to  explain  Jethro's 
presence  under  her  roof. 

"Yes,  'e  be  a  biggish  boy,  but  I  baint  a-goin' 
to  be  at  no  expense  for  'im  as  I  can  'elp.  'E 
can  wait  cum  Christmas  for  'is  trowsies.  'E 
ought  to  be  thankful  as  'e  weren't  tuk  to  the 
workus,  an'  me  only  'is  mother's  cousin,  though 
'e  do  call  me  haunt.  'E  be  a  great  expense, 
and  I've  'ad  'im  this  two  year.  The  most 
onandiest,  nothingly  child  you  ever  see — al- 
ways a-scribblin'  and  a-messin'  and  moonin'. 
I  don't  set  no  store  by  Jethro,  I  can  tell  you. 
Miss !  'E's  got  to  be  brought  up  'ard  to  heam 
'is  own  livin'" —  and  Mrs.  Gegg  paused 
breathless.  Mary  said  nothing,  but  she  felt 
rather  sorry  for  Jethro. 

Had  Mrs.  Gegg  lived  anywhere  but  in  the 
lovely,  lonely  Cotswold  village  perched  like 
a  smiling  fastness  in  the  midst  of  beech-clad 
hills,  reached  only  by  the  loosest  and  worst 
of  roads,  she  would  hardly  have  dared  to  dress 
a  six-year  boy  in  such  extraordinary  fashion. 
176 


A  Giotto  of  the  Cotswolds 

Public  opinion  would  have  been  too  strong 
for  her.  But  Nookham,  with  its  dozen  cot- 
tages, lived  and  let  live  in  easy  apathy,  and 
Jethro  in  bitterness  of  spirit  wore  his  cotton 
frock.  Two  years  ago  Mary  had  discovered 
Nookham.  Friends  had  driven  her  over  to 
have  tea  in  the  woods,  and  to  gather  the  wild 
strawberries  found  there  in  such  abundance. 
She  fell  in  love  with  the  place,  and  came  again 
upon  a  private  exploring  expedition,  when 
she  discovered  that  lodgings  were  to  be  had 
at  the  post-office,  in  the  house  of  one  Mrs. 
Gegg.  There  she  spent  a  most  delightful  fort- 
night, sketching.  Never  was  more  attentive 
and  honest  landlady,  never  cleaner,  more  or- 
derly house!  It  is  true  that  Mary's  painting 
tackle  greatly  distressed  her  hostess,  partak- 
ing as  it  did  of  the  nature  of  things  "messy 
and  slummicky,"  which  her  soul  abhorred. 
Otherwise,  sh^  liked  Mary,  as  did  most  people; 
and  she  had  in  her  way  great  toleration  for 
the  "curus  ways"  of  the  "gentry"  generally, 
expecting  less  of  them  in  the  matter  of  conmion 
sense  than  she  exacted  from  people  of  her  own 
class.  And  now,  after  two  years  in  Italy,  Mary 
found  herself  once  more  in  the  dear  Cotswold 
177 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

country,  in  the  very  middle  of  a  perfect  June. 
Nookham  generally  was  unfeignedly  pleased 
to  see  her  again.  Few  strangers  came  to  stay 
there,  and  the  roads  were  too  bad  and  too  hilly 
for  even  the  ubiquitous  cyclist.  The  squire's 
house  was  three  miles  from  the  village,  the 
vicarage  two,  and  the  tall  lady  with  the  abun- 
dant wavy  grey  hair  and  strong,  kind  face 
had  made  a  very  distinct  and  pleasant  im- 
pression. 

Mary  did  not  catch  a  glimpse  of  Jethro  dur- 
ing her  first  day  until,  happening  at  post-time 
to  want  a  letter  she  had  left  in  her  bedroom, 
she  ran  upstairs  to  fetch  it. 

The  room,  with  door  flung  wide,  faced  the 
narrow  staircase.  In  the  very  middle  of  the 
floor  stood  Jethro,  in  rapt  contemplation  of  a 
large  photograph  of  Giovanni  Bellini's  Ma- 
donna— the  one  in  the  sacristy  of  the  Frari  at 
Venice — ^which  Mary  had  placed  on  the  little 
mantelpiece. 

The  day  was  well  on  in  the  week,  the  cotton 
frock  hung  in  limp  and  draggled  folds  about 
the  childish  hmbs,  and  the  queer  little  crea- 
ture's attitude  was  almost  pathetically  boyish 
as  he  stood,  legs  far  apart,  his  hands  grasping 
178 


A  Giotto  of  the  Cotswolds 

the  lilac  cotton  where  pockets  ought  to  have 
been. 

For  a  full  minute  Mary  stood  watching  him. 
He  made  no  attempt  to  touch  the  picture;  in 
fact — and  afterwards  the  circumstance  seemed 
significant — he  stood  at  some  distance  from  it, 
that  he  might  see  it  whole. 

Mary  must  have  moved,  for  the  stairs 
creaked.  Jethro  jumped,  did  not  even  turn 
his  head  to  see  who  was  coming,  but  darted 
under  the  bed  with  the  instant  speed  of  a 
startled  squirrel.  She  came  into  the  room, 
shut  the  door,  and  sat  down  on  her  trunk,  re- 
marking, "If  you  come  out  I'll  show  you  some 
more  pictures ! "  Dead  silence  for  five  minutes, 
while  Mary  sat  patiently  waiting.  She  was 
determined  that  she  would  in  no  way  frighten 
or  constrain  the  timid  child,  for  it  seemed  to 
her  that  the  Httle  Cotswold  peasant  who  stood 
gazing  vdih.  absorbed  interest  at  her  favourite 
Madonna  must  be  worth  knowing. 

"I  can't  think  why  you  stay  under  there, 
Jethro,"  she  said  at  last;  "we  could  have  such 
a  nice  time  together  if  you  would  come  out, 
and  I  must  go  directly  to  finish  my  letters." 

But,  like  Brer  Rabbit,  Jethro  "lay  low  and 
179 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

said  nuffinV'  so  Mary  was  fain  to  go  and  finish 
her  letters,  determined  to  play  a  waiting  game. 
From  time  to  time  she  stopped  writing,  look- 
ing pained  and  puzzled.  "It  is  dreadful  that 
a  little  child  should  be  so  afraid  of  one,"  she 
said  to  herself;  "what  can  they  have  done  to 
him?"  Presently  Jethro  rushed  past  the  open 
door,  and  later  on  there  came  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  back  kitchen  a  sound  uncommonly 
like  smacks. 

Mrs.  Gegg  laid  the  supper  as  tnough  she 
were  dealing  cards  with  the  angry  emphasis 
indulged  in  by  certain  Bridge  players  after  a 
series  of  bad  hands.  Mary  ventured  on  a 
timid  remark  to  the  effect  that  Nookham  had 
changed  but  little  during  her  two  years'  ab- 
sence. Mrs.  Gegg  replied  that  "Squire  didn't 
encourage  no  fancy  building,"  and  that  there- 
fore it  was  likely  to  remain  the  same  for  some 
time  to  come.  Conversation  languished,  and 
she  went  into  the  garden  to  "take  in"  certain 
exquisitely  white  garments  still  spread  upon 
the  currant  bushes,  while  Mary  stood  at  the 
front  door  waiting  for  the  nightingale  to  "touch 
his  lyre  of  gold,"  when  another  and  very  differ- 
ent sound  broke  into  the  scented  stillness — a 
180 


A  Giotto  of  the  Cotswolds 

breathless,  broken  sound  of  sobs — a,  child's 
sobs.  She  listened  for  a  moment,  then  turned 
and  went  back  into  the  house  to  follow  the 
sound.  From  the  landing  window  she  noted 
with  relief  that  Mrs.  Gegg  was  engaged  in  con- 
verse with  a  neighbour  (Mary  stood  in  great 
awe  of  her  landlady);  she  mounted  a  ladder 
leading  to  the  attic,  and  there,  under  the  slates, 
lying  full  length  on  the  outside  of  his  clean  Ht- 
tle  bed,  was  Jethro,  sobbing  with  an  abandon 
and  intensity  that  left  Mary  in  no  doubt  as  to 
what  she  should  do  this  time.  Bumping  her 
head  violently,  and  nearly  driving  it  through 
the  slates  in  her  haste,  for  she  could  by  no 
means  stand  upright,  she  climbed  in  and 
reached  the  side  of  the  bed. 

Her  entrance  was  so  noisy  that  the  child 
had  plenty  of  time  to  vanish,  as  he  had  done 
in  the  afternoon;  but  he  was  evidently  so 
astonished  by  her  appearance  that  no  thought 
of  flight  occurred  to  him;  he  even  forgot  to  be 
frightened,  left  off  crying,  and  asked  eagerly: 

"Did  you  'urt  your  'ead?"       . 

"No,  not  much.  I  heard  you  crying,  and 
came  to  see  what  was  the  matter." 

Jethro  looked  aueerer  than  ever.  He  wore 
181 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

a  voluminous  unbleached  calico  nightgown, 
several  sizes  too  big  for  him;  the  big  tears  on 
his  cheeks  shone  like  jewels  in  the  soft  June 
twilight,  and  the  thatch  of  tow-coloured  hair 
was  rumpled  into  a  quick-set  hedge  above  his 
great,  grave  forehead. 

"I've  bin  beat,"  he  whispered. 

"Why,  what  had  you  done?" 

"I  thrown  a  stwun  at  Earny  Mustoe  akez  'e 
did  call  oi  'Jemima/  and  it  did  break  's  mother's 
windy.  "\^ 

"Is  he  bigger  than  you?" 

"Yes,  'e  be  noine!" 

"Then  why  didn't  you  go  for  him  and  hit 
him?  You  couldn't  break  any  windows  that 
way,  and  it  would  teach  him  better  manners." 

Jethro  stared  in  astonishment  at  this  war- 
like lady. 

"But  'e  be  ever  so  much  bigger  nor  me,"  he 
exclaimed,  "and  I  be  allays  beat  aterwards"; 
then,  remembering  his  woes,  "and  it  do  'urt 
so,  it  do,"  and  Jethro  began  to  wail  again. 

Mary  gathered  the  woebegone  little  figure 
into  her  arms  and  sat  down  on  the  floor,  say- 
ing cheerfully: 

"Cheer  up,  old  chap;  I'll  pay  for  that  win- 
182 


A  Giotto  of  the  Cotswolds 

dow,  and  you  mustn't  throw  any  more  stones; 
and  don't  cry  any  more,  and  we'll  have  ever 
such  nice  times  while  I'm  here." 

It  was  evident  that  Jethro  was  not  used  to 
being  cuddled.  He  sat  stiff  and  solemn  on 
her  knee,  staring  at  her  with  great  puzzled 
eyes.  She  talked  to  him  as  tender  women 
talk  to  children,  and  finally  put  him  to  bed, 
tucked  him  in,  kissed  and  blessed  him,  and 
cHmbed  down  the  ladder  again.  Much  to  her 
relief  she  saw  that  Mrs.  Gegg  was  still  in  the 
garden. 

Jethro  lay  awake,  staring  at  a  patch  of 
moonhght  on  the  whitewashed  wall.  Hazily, 
vaguely  there  arose  in  his  mind  a  recollection 
that  at  one  time  some  one  always  tucked  him 
into  bed — some  one  who  looked  kindly  at  him. 
He  couldn't  remember  the  face,  but  the  eyes 
were  like  the  tall  lady's — like  the  lady's  in  the 
picture  downstairs;  and  again  Jethro  wanted 
to  cry,  but  not  because  he  had  been  "beat." 
However,  he  would  not  cry;  she  had  asked  him 
not  to,  and  she  had  such  sharp  ears,  and  she 
would  come  to  see  him  every  night,  and  she 
had  lots  more  pictures.  Here  the  tall  lady 
and  the  lady  in  the  picture  became  inextrica- 
183 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

bly  mixed  up,  and  Jethro  slept  that  blessed 
sleep  of  childhood  which  is  oblivion. 

"I'd  just  like  to  show  you,  Miss,  a  present 
as  I've  'ad  from  my  nephew  down  Cubberly 
way.  'E's  on'y  fifteen,  and  'e's  that  clever 
with  'is  fingers — "  Mrs.  Gegg  held  up  for 
Mary's  admiration  a  frame  made  of  fir-cones 
which  had  been  varnished  and  squeezed  to- 
gether till  they  looked  like  a  hollow  square  of 
highly  polished  brown  sausages.  "There, 
Jethro,  if  you  could  make  summut  like  that.'* 

"I  likes  'em  better  a-growin',"  said  Jethro, 
softly. 

During  the  scornful  scolding  that  followed 
Mary  watched  Jethro.  His  serene  grey  eyes 
under  the  square,  peaceful  forehead  looked 
a  trifle  weary,  and  he  sighed  as  his  aunt  ha- 
rangued him,  but  he  did  not  seem  greatly  dis- 
turbed. After  all,  whether  people  scolded  or 
not,  gracious,  gentle  things  continued  a-grow- 
in', and  Jethro  through  the  sweet  uses  of  ad- 
versity had  early  learnt  that  "Nature,  the 
kind  old  nurse,"  never  refuses  consolation  to 
such  of  her  children  as  seek  it  in  sweet  solitary 
places  with  an  understanding  heart. 

Mary  found  Jethro  very  difficult  to  get  at. 
184 


A  Giotto  of  the  Cotswolds 

He  followed  her  about,  and  would  sit  watch- 
ing her  paint  for  hours  in  silent,  absolute  ab- 
sorption, but  he  very  seldom  spoke  himself. 
One  day,  as  they  were  walking  together  down 
the  steep  stony  road  leading  to  the  woods, 
he  suddenly  clasped  her  round  the  knees  ex- 
claiming, "You  be  such  a  dear  'ooman !" 

Mary  stooped  hastily  and  kissed  the  little 
upturned  face.  In  a  life  compassed  about 
with  much  affection  and  many  friends  no  one 
had  ever  spoken  to  her  with  such  a  rapture 
of  appreciation,  and  she  fell  to  thinking  how 
Httle  she  had  done  to  deserve  it.  Two  days 
after  she  got  a  letter. 

"The  mater  cannot  write  herself,"  it  ran, 
"because  she  is  busy  with  a  big  chest  in  the 
attic  upon  which  the  dust  of  ages  has  hither- 
to been  allowed  to  rest  in  peace.  From  time 
to  time  you  may  hear  her  murmur,  'Sjx,  and 
an  average  size.  Poor  Kttle  lad!  What  a 
shame ! — this  will  do,  I  think.'  So  you  know 
what  is  going  on.  Do  you  remember  the 
bundles?  All  neatly  docketed — 'To  fit  boy 
of  twelve,'  etc.  A  regular  trousseau  is  coming, 
so  tell  that  kiddie  to  cheer  up." 

Three  days  later  Jethro  appeared  at  school 
185 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

in  all  the  glory  of  jacket  and  "trowsies";  and 
the  very  boy  who  had  most  grievously  tor- 
mented him  about  his  petticoats  chastised 
another  on  his  behalf  who  made  derisive  re- 
marks about  a  "gal  in  trowsies."  Thus  the 
chief  misery  in  Jethro's  hfe  was  removed,  and 
he  felt  that  he  bade  fair  to  become  a  social 
success. 

His  aunt  manifested  no  objection  to  the 
new  clothes.  A  thrifty  soul,  she  believed  in 
taking  what  she  could  get,  and  remarked, 
quite  good-naturedly,  that  Jethro  did  look 
a  bit  more  like  other  folk  now. 

"Of  a  Saturday"  Mrs.  Gegg  "hearthstoned" 
the  whole  of  her  back  kitchen  till  its  spotless- 
ness  rivalled  that  of  the  whitewashed  walls. 
The  placid  expectancy  of  Saturday  evening 
had  settled  on  the  village.  Mary,  tired  by 
her  long  day's  painting,  was  resting  upon  the 
slippery  horsehair  sofa,  and  meditating  on  the 
impossibility  of  reproducing  on  canvas  the 
brilliant  transparency  of  young  green  larches, 
when  her  landlady  burst  into  the  room,  posi- 
tively breathless  with  passion.  "Just  you 
come  'ere,  miss,  and  see  what  that  there  mishti- 
ful  young  imp  o'  darkness  been  and  done.  I'll 
186 


A  Giotto  of  the  Cotswolds 

warm  'im  so's  'e  shan't  forget  it  in  a  'urry!" 
Mary  hastily  followed  the  woman  into  the 
sacred  back  kitchen,  and  there  in  a  comer 
near  the  pump  crouched  Jethro,  one  arm  curved 
above  his  head  to  protect  it  from  a  renewal 
of  the  rain  of  blows  that  had  just  fallen,  while 
the  floor  was  decorated  by  a  monochrome 
landscape,  painted  by  Jethro  with  Mrs.  Gegg's 
blue-bag. 

Mary  gazed  at  it  with  astonishment.  With 
strong  certainty  of  touch  the  child  had  splashed 
in  by  means  of  the  coarse  blue  the  stretch  of 
hills  that  met  his  eyes  every  time  he  went  out 
at  Mrs.  Gegg's  front  door.  The  queer  im- 
pressionist sketch  had  atmosphere,  distance, 
and,  above  all,  perspective.  "Oh,  Mrs.  Gegg !" 
cried  Mary,  holding  back  the  angry  little 
woman  with  her  strong  arms  as  she  was  ad- 
vancing across  the  picture  to  wreak  fresh 
vengeance  upon  Jethro,  "leave  it!  leave  it 
till  Monday,  and  I'll  give  you  blue  and  whiten- 
ning  to  last  you  a  twelve-month.  It  is  a  won- 
derful picture!  Some  day  you  will  be  proud 
of  him.  He  couldn't  help  it.  We  none  of  us 
gave  him  anything  to  draw  on.  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me,  child,  that  you  could  draw  like  this?" 
187 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Astonishment  was  cooling  Mrs.  Gegg's 
wrath.  She  had  heard,  nay,  upon  one  occa- 
sion seen,  that  a  pavement  artist  in  distant 
Gloucester  earned  good  money,  though  it  was 
but  a  poor  trade.  Then  there  was  Miss  Card- 
ross,  always  messing  with  paints  and  things — 
perhaps  she  really  knew  something  about  it. 
"If  you  will  leave  the  picture  where  it  is  till 
Monday,"  continued  Mary,  "I  will  ride  over 
to  Colescombe  to-morrow  and  persuade  an 
artist  friend  to  come  and  look  at  it,  and  we 
will  see  what  can  be  done  for  Jethro.  Please, 
Mrs.  Gegg!"    And  Mary  got  her  way. 

"You  must  leave  him  where  he  is,"  said 
the  great  art  critic  to  Mary  when  he  had  in- 
spected the  frescoed  floor.  "He  may  be  a 
genius.  I  think  he  is.  All  the  more  reason 
to  leave  him  alone  just  now.  Give  him  paper 
and  paints — ^lots  of  them;  don't  lose  sight 
of  him  and  we'll  help  him  when  the  right  time 
comes.    It  hasn't  come  yet." 

So  Mary  left  him  in  the  peace  of  the  kindly 

Cotswold  hills.    And  while  Bellini's  Madonna 

smiles  down  upon  him  from  the  whitewashed 

attic  wall,  while  sun  and  cloud  make  light 

188 


A  Giotto  of  the  Cotswolds 

and  shadow  for  him  on  beech-clad  slope  and 
grassy  plain,  and  life  is  full  "of  mysteries  and 
presences,  innumerable,  of  living  things,"  we 
need  not  pity  Jethro.  For,  even  as  one  who 
wandered  long  ago  upon  the  steeps  of  far 
Fiesole  found  infinite  potentialities  among 
sohtary  places  and  pleasant  pastoral  creatures, 
even  so  in  time  to  come  the  Httle  Cotswold 
peasant  may  enter  into  his  inheritance  in  that 
kingdom  where  "every  colour  is  lovely  and 
every  space  is  light.  The  world,  the  universe, 
is  divine;  all  sadness  is  a  part  of  harmony, 
and  all  gloom  a  part  of  peace." 


189 


xrv 

THE  DAY  AFTER 

THE  election  was  over  and  Patsey  was 
sad,  for  her  father  had  lost  his  seat. 
Patsey  could  not  altogether  understand  why 
her  father  should  be  so  anxious  to  sit  in  that 
particular  House  in  London  when  he  had  so 
many  comfortable  chairs  in  his  own.  But 
at  eight  years  old  a  little  girl  cannot  expect 
to  understand  everything,  and  she  was  a  very 
humble-minded  child.  She  loved  her  father 
dearly,  and  whatever  he  wanted,  she  wanted 
too,  very  much  indeed;  so  that  when  she  went 
downstairs  that  morning  to  pour  out  his  coffee, 
and  found  him  looking  so  pale  and  tired  in 
spite  of  his  gay  pink  coat  and  beautiful  white 
breeches,  for  he  was  going  out  himting,  she  gave 
him  an  extra  big  hug  and  laid  her  soft  cheek 
against  his,  sajdng,  "Dear,  dear  dad,"  quite 
a  number  of  times,  and  big  tears  forced  them- 
selves out  of  her  eyes  and  ran  down  her  cheeks, 
although  she  did  her  best  to  keep  them  back. 
190 


The  Day  After 

As  her  father  kissed  her  he  tasted  the  wet, 
salt  Httle  cheek,  and  held  her  away  from  him, 
exclaiming,  "How  now,  Pat!  WTiat's  the 
matter  ?  You  mustn't  fret.  We're  sportsmen, 
you  know,  and  we  must  take  a  defeat  like  gentle- 
men; no  grousing.  The  umpire's  decision  has 
gone  against  us  and  we  must  abide  by  it.  Look 
at  me !  If  I'd  been  in  I'd  have  been  going  off 
to  make  bad  speeches  in  stuffy  committee- 
rooms;  as  it  is,  I'm  off  for  a  good  day's  sport  in 
beautiful  soft  weather.  Which  is  best,  do  you 
think?" 

Patsey  tried  to  smile,  but  she  knew  very 
well  which  her  father  would  have  liked  best, 
and  her  tears  came  afresh. 

"He's  a  dirty  Radical,"  she  sobbed,  "a 
nasty,  common  working  man.  I  can't  think 
how  they  could  like  him  better  than  you — 
so  clean  and  handsome  and  good." 

Her  father  wiped  the  wet  little  face  with 
his  big  silk  handkerchief,  and  took  her  up  on 
his  knee. 

"I'd   rather  you   didn't  repeat   what  you 
hear  the  servants  say,  Pat,"  he  said  gravely. 
"It's  largely  a  case  of  'let  the  best  man  win/ 
and  we'll  hope  he  has." 
.191 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

So  Patsey  cheered  up,  poured  out  her  father's 
coffee,  and  they  talked  about  pleasanter  things 
than  the  election  till  she  went  out  on  to  the 
steps  to  see  him  ride  away. 

Then  everything  seemed  very  flat,  for  Hfe 
had  been  rather  exciting  lately.  It  is  true 
that  Patsey  had  never  been  allowed  to  take 
an  active  part  in  the  election,  her  father 
expressing  himself  somewhat  strongly  in  con- 
denmation  of  such  candidates  as  "  turned  their 
little  daughters  into  sandwich-men  and  their 
young  sons  into  phonographs";  but  she  had 
been  permitted  to  wear  a  blue  rosette  when  she 
drove  into  the  town  with  her  governess.  And 
sometimes  people  who  knew  her  cheered  her 
as  they  passed,  and  it  was  pleasant  to  feel  so 
important. 

It  was  curious,  too,  that  although  all  the 
servants  were  so  loud  in  their  abuse  of  the 
new  member,  they  none  of  them  seemed  in 
the  least  cast  down  by  the  result  of  the  elec- 
tion; and  Patsey's  gentle  little  soul  was  puz- 
zled by  a  partisanship  that  loudly  disparaged 
the  conqueror  while  yet  it  held  no  sympathy 
for  the  vanquished. 

All  morning  it  rained,  but  after  lunch  the 
192 


The  Day  After 

sun  came  out,  and  Patsey's  governess,  who 
had  a  cold,  bade  her  put  on  her  overshoes  and 
go  and  play  in  the  garden  for  half  an  hour  by 
herself. 

Now,  Patsey's  father  had  given  her  a  bicycle 
just  a  week  before,  and  although  she  was  not 
yet  an  expert  rider,  still,  she  could  get  along, 
and  it  struck  her  that  it  would  be  a  good 
opportunity  to  practise  by  riding  up  and  down 
the  drive.  A  stray  gardener  helped  her  on, 
and  she  found  herself  riding  so  beautifully  that 
when  she  came  to  the  lodge  and  saw  that  the 
great  gates  were  open,  the  spirit  of  adventure 
seized  upon  her  and  bore  her  through  them, 
out  on  to  the  high  road. 

Patsey  had  never  been  in  the  road  al6ne 
in  all  her  life  before,  so  that  she  felt  most 
bold  and  daring,  and  the  feeling  was  so  new 
and  delightful  that  she  rode  on  for  half  a  mile, 
finally  turning  into  a  quiet  lane  that  led  to 
the  cemetery  which  lay  a  couple  of  miles  out- 
side the  town.  Here  it  was  very  muddy,  and 
Patsey  had  not  gone  very  far  before  her  bicycle 
skidded  violently.  She  tried  to  save  herself 
with  one  foot,  but  it  twisted  under  her,  and  she 
came  down  with  the  bicycle  on  the  top  of  her. 
193 


Children  of  the  Cotswoids 

When  she  tried  to  get  up  again  she  found 
that  one  of  her  ankles  was  horribly  swollen 
and  painful,  and  that  she  couldn't  stand. 
It  was  a  very  woebegone  httle  figure  that 
sat  weeping  at  the  side  of  the  road.  The 
"fond  adventure"  had  indeed  ended  disas- 
trously, and  Patsey  bitterly  repented  her  of  her 
enterprise,  and  longed  for  her  governess  or  nurse. 

It  was  such  a  lonely  road.  Except  on 
Sundays,  when  people  went  to  take  flowers 
to  the  cemetery,  hardly  any  one  went  up  or 
down,  and  the  awful  prospect  of  sitting  there 
till  some  one  should  come  from  home  to  look 
for  her — and  why  should  they  look  for  her 
in  that  particular  road? — confronted  Patsey 
with  chilly  menace. 

The  January  sunshine  faded  early,  and  she 
began  to  feel  very  cold. 

Presently  she  heard  quick  footsteps  coming 
from  the  direction  of  the  cemetery,  and  a 
man  appeared  in  sight.  As  he  reached  the 
prostrate  bicycle  and  the  doleful  little  figure 
seated  beside  it,  he  stopped,  exclaiming,  "Hullo ! 
What's  to  do  here?  Have  you  tumbled  off, 
my  dear?  I  wouldn't  sit  there,  though,  it's 
so  wet." 

194 


The  Day  After 

"I  can't  get  up/'  poor  Patsey  faltered; 
"I've  hurt  my  foot;  it's  all  gone  fat  and 
funny,  and  it  does  pain  so.  I  can't  stand. 
Oh,  could  you?  could  you — call  in  at  my 
home  on  your  way  back  and  tell  them  to  send 
the  carriage  for  me  ?  It  would  be  so  very  kind 
of  you.    Do  you  think  you  could ?" 

The  man  stooped  down  and  looked  at 
the  poor  Httle  foot.  He  touched  it  gently 
and  shook  his  head,  saying,  "It's  rather  a 
bad  sprain,  I  fear;  just  tell  me  where  you 
hve  and  I'll  carry  you  home.  Tlien  they 
can  get  a  doctor  and  have  it  fomented  and 
bound.  I'd  best  tie  it  up  now  as  well  as  I 
can,  so  as  not  to  shake  you  more  than  I  can 
help." 

The  man  took  out  a  large  handkerchief  of 
brilHant  yellow  silk,  and  Patsey  shuddered. 
"Oh,  please  don't!"  she  cried.  "I  mustn't 
wear  anji;hing  yellow,  not  to-day  of  all  days; 
it  would  be  so  disloyal  to  daddie.  If  it  must  be 
tied  up,  please  take  mine — ^but  I  don't  think  it 
need  be." 

As  Patsey  dragged  a  damp  and  dirty  little 
square  of  once-white  cambric  from  her  pocket 
the  man  laughed. 

195 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"That's  no  use,"  he  said.  "If  Httle  Tory 
ladies  go  and  sprain  their  ankles  just  like  com- 
mon folk,  they  must  bear  a  bandage  even  if  it's 
the  wrong  colour." 

And  without  more  ado  this  masterful  man 
boimd  up  the  little  foot  with  his  gaudy  hand- 
kerchief very  deftly  and  kindly. 

"I  hope  we  shan't  meet  anybody,"  said 
Patsey,  when  he  had  lifted  her  into  his  arms, 
having  carried  the  bicycle  behind  the  hedge 
for  safety.  "It  would  be  so  unkind  of  me  to 
wear  yellow  to-day." 

The  man  turned  and  looked  sharply  at  the 
pale  Httle  face  so  close  to  his  own,  and  gave 
a  low  whistle. 

"Do  you  know  who  I  am?"  Patsey  asked 
with  dignity. 

"And  do  you  know  who  /am?"  demanded 
the  man. 

There  flashed  an  illuminating  ray  of  remem- 
brance into  Patsey 's  mind.  She  had  seen  this 
man  before,  and  he  was  no  other  than  the 
"Labour  candidate"  who  had  stolen  her  father's 
seat. 

There  was  silence  for  a  minute  till  Patsey 
said  earnestly,  "If  you  know  who  I  am,  you 
196 


The  Day  After 

need  not  wonder  that  I  biject  to  wear  anything 
yellow."  Then,  for  Patsey's  father  had  taught 
her  that  other  people  have  political  opinions 
too,  "And  perhaps  you  biject  just  as  much  to 
carrying  a  Httle  blue  girl." 

The  man  laughed  and  held  her  a  little 
closer  as  he  said,  "Far  from  objecting,  I  like 
carrying  this  little  blue  girl  exceedingly.  It's 
a  long  time  since  I  carried  any  Httle  girl,"  he 
added  sadly. 

"Haven't  you  any  Httle  girls  of  your  own?" 
she  asked  curiously. 

"My  little  girl  Hes  yonder,"  said  the  man, 
nodding  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  ceme- 
tery. 

Patsey  lifted  her  arm  and  put  it  roimd  his 
neck  that  he  might  carry  her  more  easily, 
and,  forgetting  all  about  the  yellow  handker- 
chief, exclaimed,  "How  sad!  I  am  so  sorry. 
My  mummy  is  buried  there  too.  Was  your 
little  girl  ill  a  long  time?  My  munmiy  was, 
months  and  months.  Was  your  Httle  girl 
eight,  too,  Hke  me?" 

"She  was  just  ten  when  she  died,"  the 
man  said  quietly,  "but  she  was  nothing  Hke 
so  big  or  so  heavy  as  you,  poor  Httle  lass! 
197 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

She  died  because  I  could  get  neither  food  nor 
firing  for  her,  and  I've  just  been  to  her  grave. 
.  .  ."  The  man  paused,  and  in  quite  a  different 
tone  continued,  "And  that's  why  I  stand  in 
your  father's  shoes  to-day,  Httle  lady,  and  per- 
haps I  may  help  to  make  it  better  for  other 
little  girls  by  and  by." 

"I  wish  my  daddie  had  known,"  Patsey 
said  softly.  "He  would  have  sent  you  every- 
thing you  wanted  for  her;  he  would  indeed. 
He's  so  good  to  the  poor." 

The  man  gave  a  hard  little  laugh. 

"I've  no  doubt  of  it,"  he  said,  "but,  you 
see,  that's  not  what  we  want.  We're  not 
over-fond  of  charity,  some  of  us.  Besides, 
charity's  a  bit  uncertain.  What  we  want  is 
to  be  able  to  give  our  little  girls  food  and 
firing  our  own  selves.  Yes,  charity's  a  bit 
imcertain  and  children's  appetites  uncom- 
monly regular." 

"Were  you  hungry  and  cold  too?"  asked 
Patsey. 

Again  the  man  laughed  that  queer,  hard 

laugh.     "It  don't  hurt  a  man  to  be  hungry 

and  cold  occasionally,"  he  said  grimly,  "but 

too  much  of  it  breaks  a  man's  spirit.    It's  see- 

198 


The  Day  After 

ing  them  belonging  to  him  hmigiy  and  cold 
and  not  being  able  to  help  them  that  puts  the 
devil  into  a  man.  I  beg  yom-  pardon,  little 
lady,  but  there's  no  other  word." 

By  this  time  they  had  turned  into  Patsey's 
own  drive.  The  sun  was  setting  behind  the 
house,  gorgeous  and  golden,  and  the  mellow 
light  fell  full  on  the  face  of  the  "dirty  Radical" 
who  carried  Patsey.  She  considered  him  care- 
fully. It  was  a  sad  face,  strong  and  lined  with 
hardship  and  suffering,  but  there  was  something 
in  the  expression  of  his  eyes  that  made  her  for- 
get his  politics,  and  she  patted  his  shoulder, 
saying  warmly,  "I  hope  you  will  succeed,  in- 
deed I  do." 

Her  father,  still  in  his  muddy  hunting  things, 
was  standing  on  the  steps  looking  anxiously 
down  the  drive.  When  he  saw  them  he  ran 
forward,  exclaiming  anxiously,  "Patsey,  my 
darhng,  what  has  happened?" 

"It's  all  right,  daddie,"  Patsey  called  back. 
"  I've  had  a  spiU  off  my  bicycle,  and  this  .  .  . 
gentleman  found  me  and  has  carried  me  all 
the  way  home." 

Patsey's  father  smiled  a  whimsical  smile 
as  he  held  out  his  arms  for  her,  and  as  the 
199 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

muddy  little  figure  changed  hands,  he  said, 
"You  are  evidently  determined  to  benefit 
all  your  constituents,  sir." 

The  Labour  member  smiled  too,  but  his 
face  was  very  sad  as  he  answered,  "You 
might  have  my  place  and  welcome,  if  I  could 
have  what  you  hold  in  your  arms." 

Without  another  word  he  turned  and  walked 
swiftly  down  the  drive.  Patsey's  father  neither 
called  after  him,  nor  did  he  follow;  but  he  held 
his  httle  daughter  very  close. 

That  night  Patsey  added  an  extra  petition 
to  her  usual  prayers.  It  was:  "Please,  dear 
God,  let  the  kind  Radical  man  what  carried  me, 
get  what  he  wants  for  all  the  other  little  girls." 


200 


XV 

A  COUP  d'etat 

ROGER  stood  at  the  nursery  window, 
.  apparently  watching  the  driving  rain, 
but  in  reaHty  puzzling,  with  knit  brows,  over 
a  situation  he  could  by  no  means  understand, 
although  he  was  painfully  conscious  of  its  vague 
discomfort.  When  a  small  boy  loves  both  his 
parents  dearly,  and  it  is  gradually  but  most 
effectually  brought  home  to  him  that  he  can- 
not show  affection  for  the  one  without  in  some 
subtle  fashion  appearing  to  hurt  the  other,  the 
said  small  boy  jBnds  himself  m  a  ad  de  sac 
none  the  less  final  that  its  walls  are  by  no  means 
clearly  defined.  Older  people  than  Roger  real- 
ise that  the  only  way  out  of  a.  cid  de  sac  is  to 
go  back  the  way  you  came;  but  he,  having  no 
idea  how  he  had  got  there,  could  not  do  this; 
in  fact,  it  was  only  that  very  morning  that  he 
awoke  to  the  fact  that  he  was  there. 

It  was  in  this  wise.    His  mother  was  chang- 
ing the  ornaments  in  the  drawing-room — she 
201 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

had  changed  her  drawing-room  about  once  a 
week  lately,  lest  it  should  get  to  look  "set" — 
and  she  had  moved  the  easel  holding  the  big 
portrait  of  her  uncle,  the  Dean,  over  to  the 
comer  by  the  piano.  Roger  assisted  her,  ad- 
miring her  arrangement,  as  he  admired  every- 
thing about  his  mother,  and  she  said, 

"I  hope  you  will  grow  up  like  your  uncle 
Ambrose,  sonnie!" 

Roger  was  by  no  means  sure  that  he  echoed 
her  wish.  He  had  once  visited  the  deanery 
and  found  the  atmosphere  somewhat  oppres- 
sively dignified. 

"Why,  mother  dear?"  he  asked. 

"Because" — and  a  certain  tone  in  her  voice 
puzzled  Roger — "he  is  a  stainless  gentleman." 

"I  think  I'd  rather  be  like  father,"  he  said 
meditatively;  "that  would  do  just  as  well. 
To  be  a  dean  you've  got  to  be  a  parson  first, 
and  I'd  much  rather  be  a  soldier,  like  father." 

His  mother  turned  her  head  hastily  so  that 
the  child  could  not  see  her  face. 

"You  can  be  like  your  uncle  in  character 
whatever  your  profession;  it  is  there  I  would 
have  you  resemble  him." 

"But,"  interrupted  Roger,  "father's  a  stain- 
202 


A  Coup  d'Etat 

less  gentleman  too,  isn't  he?    And  he's  much 
more  jollier  than  Uncle  Ambrose." 

His  mother  did  not  answer,  and  to  the  child 
such  silence  seemed  charged  with  chilly  omen. 
He  did  not  ask  her,  as  he  longed  to  do,  what  she 
exactly  meant  by  a  stainless  gentleman.  He 
was  sure  that  in  some  incomprehensible  fashion 
the  stainlessness  of  great-Uncle  Ambrose  re- 
flected imfavourably  upon  his  father  and  re- 
sented it  accordingly.  He  was  also  sure  that 
this  enviable  quality  had  nothing  to  do  with  per- 
sonal cleanliness,  for  there  was  no  one  in  the 
whole  world  so  clean  and  smart  as  father. 
Why,  when  he  drove  to  a  distant  meet,  he 
wore  "two  pinafores,"  one  in  front  and  one 
behind,  to  keep  his  leathers  spotlessly  white; 
the  said  pinafores,  by  the  way,  doing  much 
toward  reconcihng  Roger  to  the  wearing  of 
his  bib  at  meals. 

The  nursery  window  was  open  and  the 
soft  spring  rain  whispered  pleasant  things 
to  the  grass;  but  Roger  did  not  listen.  For 
the  first  time  in  his  life  he  was  weighing  evi- 
dence; and  the  worst  of  it  was,  that,  do  as  he 
would,  the  bulk  of  the  evidence  all  went  into 
one  scale. 

203 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"They're  just  as  fond  of  me,"  he  thought 
to  himself,  "but  somehow  they're  never  with 
me  together."  There  were  no  jolly  drives 
into  the  town  now — those  drives  in  the  high 
dog-cart  when  he  would  sit  between  them  rap- 
turously thinking  that  never  had  little  boy 
such  resplendent  parents.  Now,  mother  al- 
ways went  in  the  "bucket"  with  his  little  sisters, 
and  when  father  took  him  out  driving,  mother 
did  not  even  come  and  stand  on  the  steps  to 
wave  them  a  farewell.  She  never  sat  on 
father's  knee  now,  or  called  him  a  "ridiculous 
boy,"  or  untied  his  necktie,  or  rumpled  his  hair. 
She  seemed  always  to  sit  as  far  off  as  possible, 
and  when  she  did  look  at  her  big,  jolly  husband, 
there  was  that  in  her  expression  which  Roger 
felt  he  would  rather  not  understand. 

The  truth  was  that  Roger  the  elder  and 
Lettice  his  wife,  having  been  at  one  time 
rather  demonstratively  fond  of  one  another, 
found  it  somewhat  difficult  to  keep  up  appear- 
ances since  such  time  as  began  the  state  of 
affairs  their  little  son  so  deprecated.  Lettice 
certainly  flattered  herself  upon  the  secrecy 
and  dignity  with  which  she  attended  to  the 
linen  less  well-bred  people  will  sometimes  in- 
204 


A  Coup  d*Etat 

sist  upon  hanging  up  to  the  pubHc  gaze  even 
before  it  has  gone  through  the  cleansing  proc- 
ess, and  was  quite  unconscious  that  all  the 
while  her  servants  discussed  the  affair  ex- 
haustively, her  friends  pronounced  the  position 
untenable,  and  her  little  son  grieved  and  won- 
dered, casting  about  in  his  child  mind  for  some 
way  of  clearing  an  atmosphere  which  even  he 
felt  was  so  charged  with  electricity  as  to  be 
well-nigh  intolerable. 

The  rain  ceased  whispering,  but  the  trees 
took  up  the  story  and  rustled  importantly, 
shaking  their  glistening  leaves  at  the  sun 
who  winked  lazily  in  the  west.  The  two 
Httle  sisters  called  to  Roger  to  come  and 
have  tea  with  the  dolls;  but  he  shook  his 
head  impatiently,  thrusting  it  between  the 
bars  of  the  window  that  he  might  not  hear 
them.  A  robin  on  the  hawthorn  hedge  below 
regarded  him  in  friendly  fashion  and  sang  a 
song  of  coming  summer;  but  Roger  saw  nothing 
but  a  blurred  Httle  splash  of  crimson  against 
the  green,  for  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"Father,   what's   a   stainless   gentleman?" 
he  asked  as  they  went  together  in  the  evening 
to  feed  the  big  carp  in  the  pond. 
205 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Roger  the  elder  stopped  in  the  middle  of 
the  path.  He  took  his  cigar  out  of  his  mouth 
and  cleared  his  throat. 

"Well;  sonnie,  I  suppose  it's  a  man  who 
runs  very  straight,  who  never  plays  the  fool, 
and  does  idiotic  things,  for  the  doing  of  which 
he  has  to  pay  Jew  prices — a  very  good  man, 
you  know.  But  why?  What  d'you  want  to 
know  for?" 

"Well,  mother  said  Uncle  Ambrose  is  a 
*  stainless  gentleman,'  and  she  hoped  I'd  be 
like  him  when  I'm  grown  up." 

"For  the  matter  of  that,  sonnie,  so  do  I. 
You  couldn't  have  a  better  model." 

"I  rather  be  like  you,  fardie,  dear — much 
rather."  And  Roger  took  his  father's  hand 
in  both  his  own,  and  squeezed  it  hard. 

The  elder  Roger  said  nothing  for  a  minute, 
but  he  grew  very  red.  How  was  he  to  tell 
the  faithful  Httle  soul  at  his  side  that  his 
ideal  was  by  no  means  a  high  one  ? 

"You'll  grow  up  very  much  the  sort  of 
man  you  want  to  be,  sonnie.  So  mind  and 
want  to  be  the  best  sort  going." 

"Well,  't  all  events,  I  shan't  be  like  Uncle 
Ambrose.    He's  too  fond  of  sitting  still." 
206 


A  Coup  d'Etat 

"You'll  be  fond  of  sitting  still  when  you're 
his  age,"  said  his  father,  with  a  sigh  of 
relief. 

They  fed  the  carp,  and  Roger  almost  for- 
got his  troubles,  till,  on  returning  to  the  house, 
they  saw  his  mother  on  the  tennis  court  with 
the  Httle  girls.  She  called  to  him  to  come  and 
play  cricket  with  his  sisters. 

"Will  you  come  too,  father?"  he  asked, 
pulling  at  his  father's  hand. 

The  elder  Roger  looked  somewhat  wistfully 
at  the  little  group  inside  the  netting  on  the 
tennis  court.  His  little  daughters  kissed  their 
fingers  to  him,  calling  to  him  to  come;  but  his 
wife  had  turned  her  back  upon  him,  and  she 
had  a  most  expressive  back.  He  shook  his 
head  at  the  children,  muttering  something 
about  letters  to  write,  and  turned  to  walk 
slowly  towards  the  house. 

"I'll  bowl  to  you  if  you  come,  Roger;  the 
grass  is  really  quite  dry  again!"  called  his 
mother.  Roger  stood  still  in  the  drive,  look- 
ing from  one  to  the  other  of  his  parents  both 
\\ith  their  backs  to  him.  Lettice  looked  over 
her  shoulder  and  saw  her  husband's  departing 
figure.  "Come,  my  son!"  she  called,  with  a 
207 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

queer  little  catch  in  her  sweet  voice.  "I've 
hardly  seen  you  all  day." 

Roger  went  round  the  netting  till  he  found 
an  opening  and  pushed  through.  His  mother 
came  to  meet  him,  and  put  her  arm  round  his 
shoulders.  He  pointed  to  his  father,  who  was 
walking  slowly  away  with  bent  head. 

"  Don't  you  think  fardie  looks  rather  lonely  ?  " 
he  asked. 

Lettice  looked  after  her  husband.  "I  don't 
think  he  is  lonely,  sonnie:  he  has  so  many — 
other  friends."  But  the  boy  was  not  con- 
vinced. 

Roger's  mother  bowls  unconmionly  well, 
but  he  did  not  enjoy  the  cricket.  He  kept 
contrasting  it  with  that  of  last  year.  Then 
father  always  played  too,  and  one  day  mother 
bowled  him  clean,  and  there  was  great  shouting 
and  excitement.  "  It  was  jollier  cricket  then ! " 
he  reflected  sadly. 

The  elder  Roger  went  and  sat  in  the  gun- 
room. He  had  to  relight  his  cigar  three  times, 
and  his  reflections,  although  engrossing,  did 
not  seem  pleasant. 

"WiU  she  never  understand,"  he  muttered, 
"that  a  man  may  care  and  yet  play  the  giddy, 
208 


A  Coup  d'Etat 

and  that  he  may  play  the  giddy  and  not  care  a 
damn?    What  an  ahnighty  fool  I've  been !" 

When  the  children  had  gone  to  bed  Lettice 
went  and  sat  in  the  newly  arranged  drawing- 
room. 

"It's  perfectly  hideous!"  she  exclaimed; 
"I  can't  sit  here!" 

But  she  did  sit  there,  staring  at  nothing  for 
a  good  haK-hour  till  the  dressing-bell  rang.  In 
the  evening  she  took  up  that  very  wise  book, 
"On  the  Face  of  the  Waters,"  and  read  in 
what  manner  Kate  Erleton  had  refused  "her 
chance." 

When  Mttle  Roger  woke  next  morning  he 
remembered  that  something  very  pleasant  was 
to  happen  that  day.  He  was  going  with  his 
father  to  the  riding-school  in  the  town  to  see  a 
pony,  and  on  that  pony,  if  it  proved  suitable, 
he  was  to  go  hunting  next  winter.  As  the  full 
significance  of  this  tremendous  occurrence  was 
brought  home  to  him  in  the  shape  of  a  pair  of 
new  and  very  stiff  gaiters,  he  felt  equal  to 
negotiating  the  very  biggest  bullfinch;  which 
may  account  for  what  happened  haK  an  hour 
later,  as  he  stood  in  the  hall  waiting  for  the 
dog-cart. 

209 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

The  rain  had  come  on  again,  heavy  "  Mayish 
rain,"  as  Roger  called  it,  but  they  didn't  mind 
about  that.  His  father  was  standing  in  the 
doorway  looking  very  big  in  a  wide  white 
macintosh.  His  mother  ran  downstairs  with 
her  own  macintosh  cape  for  the  little  boy. 
As  she  reached  the  bottom  step,  the  elder  Roger 
came  back  into  the  hall.  Perkins,  who  had 
been  in  "father's  regiment"  when  father  first 
joined,  stood  at  the  door  with  a  rug  over  his 
arm,  looking  imperturbable  as  usual. 

Lettice  stooped  to  kiss  her  little  son  as 
she  buttoned  the  cape  at  his  neck.  He  caught 
at  her  hands  as  they  fmnbled  with  the  stiff 
button,  and  said  loudly, 

"Kiss  father  too,  mother  dear,  and  wish 
us  luck!" 

Perkins  turned  his  head  quickly,  looking 
back  into  the  hall.  Lettice  felt  the  small 
insistent  hands  upon  her  own,  and  heard  her 
husband's  quick  breathing  just  behind  her. 
There  flashed  into  her  brain  the  thought  that 
here  and  now  was  her  "chance."  She  turned 
quickly  and  lifted  up  her  small  proud  face 
towards  her  husband. 

There  was  a  flutter  and  flash  of  white  macin- 
210 


A  Coup  d'Etat 

tosh  in  the  dusky  hall  as  Roger  the  elder  caught 
his  wife  up  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  into  the 
dining-room.  The  door  shut  with  a  bang,  and 
little  Roger  was  left  alone  with  Perkins,  who 
blew  his  nose  and  waved  the  rug,  exclaiming,  in 
an  excited  whisper 

"Bless  your  'eart,  sir,  you've  done  it !" 

Roger  stood  on  the  steps  and  waited;  the 
smart  Uttle  groom  drove  the  dog-cart  round 
and  round  the  drive;  ten  minutes  passed,  and 
stni  father  did  not  come. 

"I'm  rather  afraid  we  shall  miss  the  'ppoint- 
ment,"  said  Roger,  and  made  as  if  to  go  after 
his  parents  into  the  dining-room;  but  Per- 
kins caught  him  by  the  shoulder  and  pulled 
him  out  on  to  the  steps  again,  exclaiming 
fiercely, 

"No,  you  don't,  Master  Roger — not  for 
your  life!" 

Another  five  minutes,  then  the  dining- 
room  door  opened:  with  a  swish  and  swither 
of  silk  petticoats  his  mother  flew  upstairs  two 
steps  at  a  time. 

"Buck  up !"  her  husband  shouted  after  her, 
and  his  voice  sounded  as  though  he'd  got  a 
dreadful  cold;  then,  to  Roger,  "Mother  is 
211 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

coming  too,  to  see  about  the  pony;  and  just 
look  what  a  lovely  day  it's  turned." 

Roger  thrust  his  hand  into  his  father's,  who 
held  it  very  tight,  but  he  didn't  say  anything 
at  all. 

There  are  the  makings  of  a  statesman  in 
Roger. 


212 


XVI 

THE    STACEYS    OF    ELCOMBE    HOUSE 

A  FTER  Hairy  went  to  school  Paul  and  I 
IjL  had  breakfast  as  well  as  lunch  with  father 
and  mother,  unless  there  happened  to  be  a  great 
many  visitors.  This  was  interesting  because 
the  letters  came  at  breakfast  and  we  heard 
the  news. 

It  is  curious  how  the  most  epoch-making 
intelligence  is  often  given  quite  quietly  with 
no  flourish  of  trumpets,  no  preparation;  just 
as  the  most  momentous  decisions  are  almost 
always  made  at  once,  without  much  reflection. 

In  the  middle  of  May — I  remember  it  was 
such  a  beautiful  morning  and  tuHps  blazed 
in  the  herbaceous  border  opposite  the  window 
— mother  looked  up  from  her  letters  and  said : 
"Measles  is  very  bad  in  Fiammetta's  school. 
Mr.  Glyn  has  taken  her  away,  and  as  soon  as 
the  quarantine  is  over  he  wants  us  to  have 
her  here  for  the  rest  of  the  summer,  as  he 
needs  to  go  to  America  this  month." 
213 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

I  couldn't  speak.    It  was  so  tremendous. 

Fiammetta  here!  for  the  rest  of  the  sum- 
mer !  and  summer  had  only  just  begun. 

"Well,"  said  father,  "that  seems  to  me  a 
very  sound  suggestion — ^but  what'll  he  do 
with  Miss  Sparling?" 

She  was  the  lady  who  kept  house  for  him. 

"She'll  go  off  on  a  round  of  visits  and  they'll 
shut  the  house.  We  were  to  have  the  child 
in  any  case  in  the  holidays,  so  it's  only  a  month 
or  two  sooner.  It  will  be  nice  for  you,  Janey, 
to  have  her" — and  mother  smiled  at  me. 

Nice  for  me ! 

I  mumbled  something  suitable:  but  I  felt 
too  strongly  to  do  more  than  mumble.  There 
was  a  singing  in  my  ears  and  a  limip  in  my 
throat  .  .  .  but  father  understood,  for  he  said : 
"It  will  be  pleasant  to  have  the  little  blue  maid 
again:  eh,  Janey?"  and  I  nodded  at  father 
and  father  nodded  at  me.  Then  he  opened  the 
newspaper  and  didn't  look  at  me  any  more,  and 
I  was  grateful. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Paul,  "how  many  more 
plays  she's  been  to.  We  shall  be  able  to  act 
them  all  when  she's  told  us." 

A  year  ago  she  had  come  to  us,  this  child, 
214 


The  Staceys  of  Elcombe  House 

so  utterly  different  from  any  other  child  we 
knew;  come  to  us,  and,  for  me,  had  changed 
and  widened  and  vitalised  the  whole  essential 
part  of  my  being. 

At  first  I  wasn't  even  sure  that  I  liked  her. 
She  was  so  different :  but  gradually  I  discovered 
that  in  this  difference  lay  her  mysterious  elusive 
charm. 

Little  blue-gowned  Fiammetta,  always 
quaint,  always  picturesque,  always  and  en- 
tirely unexpected.  At  first  her  somewhat 
superior  and  grown-up  attitude  irritated  us 
extremely,  but  very  soon  we  found  that  this 
was  but  a  thin  veneer  acquired  by  much  con- 
tact with  grown-up  people  of  a  type  we  seldom 
saw.  Beneath  it  was  the  child,  a  veritable 
child — ^whimsical,  imaginative,  affectionate, 
ever-various — ^with  a  power  of  suggesting  and 
carrying  through  new  and  fascinating  forms  of 
play  that  even  Paul  could  not  equal,  Paul  who 
had  imagination  enough  to  stock  ten  families. 

But  we  regarded  the  vagaries  of  our  younger 
brother  with  suspicion  and  some  scorn.  He 
was  so  young.  What  is  eight  compared  to 
eleven?  And  Harry,  now  alas!  exiled  at  a 
preparatory  school,  was  twelve.  Harry,  my 
215 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

guide,  philosopher  and  friend,  reft  from  me 
for  long  periods  of  the  year. 

We  had  seen  her  once  since  last  summer — 
just  once,  in  the  Christmas  hohdays,  when 
Harry,  Paul  and  I,  in  charge  of  Miss  Good- 
lake,  our  governess,  went  for  two  long,  crowded, 
glorious  days  to  London.  We  stayed  out  at 
Hampstead,  where  Mr.  Glyn  had  taken  a  house 
that  Fiammetta  might  as  a  day-girl  go  to  a 
nice  school  there. 

But  when  you  are  seeing  things  all  day  long 
you  can't  seem  to  see  people,  and  Fiammetta 
herself  was  swamped  in  a  sea  of  other  wonders 
and  impressions. 

Now  she  was  really  coming  back  and  I 
should  get  some  good  of  her. 

And  the  very  week  she  came  back  we  had  to 
go  from  Friday  to  Monday  to  stay  with  Uncle 
Edward  and  Aunt  Alice  over  at  Elcombe  House. 

I  never  wanted  to  go  there,  and  desired  it 
less  than  ever  just  then;  but  Aunt  Alice 
is  mother's  sister  and  it  had  been  arranged 
for  weeks,  and  when  mother  suggested  that 
I  couldn't  go  because  Fiammetta  was  coming, 
they  invited  her  too  with  the  utmost  cordi- 
ality. So  there  was  no  getting  out  of  it. 
216 


The  Staceys  of  Elcombe  House 

As  it  happened,  it  proved  a  more  amusing 
visit  than  usual. 

"What's  the  matter  with  them,  Janey,  that 
you  groan  so?"  Fiammetta  asked  that  Friday 
morning.     "Don't  you  like  your  cousins?" 

Put  crudely  like  that,  it  soimded  rather 
bad.    I  hedged. 

"I  like  them  well  enough,  but  I  hate  going 
there,  to  stay.  It's  so  stiff  somehow,  every- 
thing's always  arranged  for  one — ^you'll  see." 

"I  like  Teddy,"  Lucy  announced — ^plump, 
placid  Lucy,  who  had  come  into  our  room 
in  nurse's  wake  while  she  packed  our  things 
for  Sunday.  "I  love  Teddy,"  Lucy  continued, 
"he  and  me's  both  five." 

"If,"  nurse  remarked  severely,  "you  was 
a  bit  more  like  your  cousins.  Miss  Janey,  it 
would  be  better  for  all  parties.  Very  nicely 
brought-up  young  ladies  they  are,  and  full  of 
accomplishments. ' ' 

That  was  it.  They  were  so  full  of  accom- 
plishments. Hermy  (her  name  was  Hermione), 
only  a  year  my  senior,  was  already  learning  to 
paint  in  oils  and  studied  ItaHan.  Viola, 
eighteen  months  younger,  could  play  quite 
difficult  music  and  danced  by  herself  at  tea- 
217 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

parties,  clad  in  classic  draperies.  Teddy — it 
was  father  who  called  him  Teddy,  and  the  name 
stuck,  though  Uncle  Edward  disliked  it  ex- 
tremely— was  the  best  of  them:  moon-faced, 
good-natured  and  absolutely  simple,  a  well- 
meaning,  quite  ordinary  little  boy  with  no  aire 
or  graces.  Teddy,  so  Harry  said,  was  "aw- 
fully decent." 

"You  haven't  explained,"  Fiammetta  in- 
sisted.    "What's  your  uncle  like?" 

"It's  no  use,"  I  exclaimed,  "I  can't  explain 
— ^you  wait.  Perhaps,"  I  added  hopefully, 
"you'll  like  him." 

When  Uncle  Edward  bought  Elcombe  House, 
only  eight  miles  off,  we  children  rejoiced:  for 
now,  we  thought,  there  could  be  no  possible 
reason  for  the  "Eeny-Peenies,"  as  we  called 
the  girls,  coming  to  stay  with  us.  But  we  had 
reckoned  without  the  hospitality  of  the  Staceys. 
We  were  everlastingly  being  invited  to  stay 
with  them,  and  of  two  evils  this  was  by  far  the 
greater.  They  were  always — Uncle  Edward, 
the  two  governesses,  Hermy  and  Vi — trying  to 
improve  us,  especially  me. 

Paul  didn't  fit  as  to  age,  and  his  tempera- 
ment was,  apparently,  even  less  adaptable 
218 


The  Staceys  of  Elcombe  House 

than  mine.  WTienever  Paul  went,  there  was 
trouble.  Lucy  and  Teddy  were  the  best  of 
friends,  but  nurse  and  the  Staceys'  nurse 
couldn't  hit  it  off  at  all.  Harry  was  safe  at 
school,  therefore  the  lot  generally  fell  upon 
me  to  go  .  .  .  and  I  hated  it. 

This  time  I  felt  it  would  not  be  so  bad  be- 
cause Fiammetta  was  there,  and  Fiammetta 
was  capable  of  holding  her  own  with  dozens  of 
Staceys. 

In  the  first  place,  she  was  a  well-known 
poet's  only  child.  They  would  respect  her 
for  that.  In  the  second  place,  people  who 
tried  to  patronise  Fiammetta  were  riding  for 
a  fall.  That  I  had  seen  proved,  over  and 
over  again.  Paul  was  like  that  too,  but  then 
Paul  was  only  one  of  us,  and  they  looked  down 
on  us.  Uncle  Edward  looked  down  on  father. 
I  knew  it,  I  felt  it.    I  resented  it  intensely. 

Uncle  Edward  had  a  way  of  condemning 
amusements  that  he  didn't  care  about  by 
calling  them  "rather  horrid"  in  a  high  thin 
voice  that  was  far  more  condemnatory  than 
the  loudest  fulminations  of  ordinary  folk. 
Both  hunting  and  shooting  fell  imder  this 
ban,  and  father  liked  both.  As  for  fishing, 
219 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Uncle  Edward  considered  it  the  last  resource 
of  the  mentally  effete.  Agricultural  pursuits 
he  dismissed  as  "rather  bucolic,"  and  father 
farmed  his  own  land  and  was  extremely  keen 
about  everything  that  concerned  it.  Whist 
and  Bridge — ^Bridge  had  just  begun  to  be 
popular — ^he  described  as  "dreadful  games"; 
in  fact,  he  "loathed  all  cards"  except  Patience. 
He  was  an  expert  in  Patience,  knowing  quite 
forty  different  kinds;  but  he  didn't  care  for 
it  unless  at  least  three  people  watched  him 
do  it — ^which  was  dull  for  the  selected  three. 

He  was  a  slim,  small  man,  whom  no  mortal 
ever  saw  without  his  pince-nez — I  believe  he 
slept  in  them — ^with  a  pale,  regularly-featured 
face,  clean-shaven  and  legal-looking.  He  was 
delicate,  took  immense  care  of  himself,  and  cul- 
tivated a  large  and  healthy  crop  of  dislikes. 
His  sense  of  smell  was  painfully  acute  and  many 
ordinary  odours,  that  do  not  offend  less  sen- 
sitively constituted  mortals,  were,  to  him,  quite 
unbearable.  Tobacco  he  could  not  endure. 
When  father  went  to  Elcombe  House  he  had  to 
creep  away  to  the  furthest  point  of  the  most 
distant  garden  to  enjoy  the  smoke  he  could  in 
no  wise  forego.  And  when  he  returned.  Uncle 
220 


The  Staceys  of  Elcombe  House 

Edward  always  sniffed  delicately  and  looked 
pained. 

A  cut  melon  caused  Uncle  Edward  to  feel 
unwell;  and  I  do  believe  if  any  one  had  eaten 
an  apple  in  front  of  him  he  would  have  fainted 
outright. 

We  arrived  just  before  tea.  Hermy  and 
Vi  met  us  in  the  hall  and  walked  upstairs  one 
on  either  side  of  Fiammetta,  leaving  me  to 
follow  by  myself.  They  showed  us  our  rooms 
— ^we  had  one  each — and  they  left  me  in  mine 
while  they  both  accompanied  Fiammetta  to 
hers. 

After  tea,  presided  over  by  Mademoiselle 
and  Fraulein,  Teddy  suddenly  demanded, 
"What  have  you  done  with  the  poet?" 

"What  poet?"  asked  Fiammetta,  for  Ted- 
dy's remark  was  evidently  addressed  to  her, 
his  round  eyes  never  left  her  face. 

"The  poet  you  belongs  to.  Where  have 
you  put  him?" 

"I  don't,"  Fiammetta  said  rather  huflily 
"pwf  my  father  anywhere — do  you?" 

"He's  not  a  poet,"  Teddy  said,  quite  un- 
moved by  her  disapproval.  "He's  only  an 
or'nary  father." 

221 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"Indeed  he's  not,"  cried  Viola;  "he's  very- 
extraordinary — most  gifted/'  she  added  com- 
placently. 

Teddy  continued  to  stare  at  Fiammetta. 
"You  haven't  told  me,"  he  continued. 

"Told  you  what?'' 

"—where  he  is." 

"He's  in  London,  if  you  mean  my  daddie." 

"Must  he  stay  there?" 

"Of  course  not,  if  he  doesn't  want  to." 

"Then  why  doesn't  he  come  here  with  you?'* 

"Because  he's  in  London,  I  tell  you." 

"Doesn't  he  want  to  come  here?" 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Fiammetta,  whose 
patience  was  nearly  exhausted.  "Do  you  al- 
ways ask  so  many  questions?" 

"I  always  ask/'  Teddy  replied  candidly, 
"but  people  never  tells  me  all  I  want  to  know. 
Sometimes  they  don't  even  answer." 

"I  should  think  not,"  cried  Viola.  "A 
little  boy  like  you !  Run  away  and  play  with 
your  horse  and  cart.  Fiammetta  has  come 
to  see  us,  not  you." 

"Have  you?"  the  downright  Teddy  asked 
wistfully. 

"I've  come  to  see  all  of  you,"  Fiammetta 
222 


The  Staceys  of  Elcombe  House 

said  graciously,  "though  I'm  really  staying 
with  Janey,  you  know." 

"Perhaps  you'll  come  and  stay  with  us 
too,  mother  said;  without  Janey,  for  a  bit," 
Hermy  suggested. 

Fiammetta  stared. 

"Without  Janey?"  she  repeated.     "Why?" 

Hermy  looked  rather  uncomfortable. 

"Well,  in  case  Janey  didn't  care  to  come, 
you  know,"  and  Hermy  put  her  arm  round 
Fiammetta. 

Fiammetta  drew  herself  away:  "I  shouldn't 
like  it  at  all  without  Janey,  thank  you,"  she 
said  stiffly;   "she's  my  greatest  friend." 

Hermy  and  Viola  looked  at  each  other  and 
then  at  me,  as  though  they  were  considering 
me  in  a  new  light.  Teddy,  who  had  not  done 
his  sister's  bidding  and  was  still  hanging  on 
the  outskirts  of  our  Httle  group,  said  suddenly, 
"I'll  come  and  stay  with  both  of  you  when- 
ever you  ask  me,  wvout  Nana,"  and  he  thrust 
a  sticky  little  hand  into  mine.  My  heart 
went  out  to  him,  and  I  gave  the  hot  small  hand 
a  squeeze.  Teddy  and  I  were  of  the  inarticu- 
late, but  we  understood  one  another. 

Viola  turned  ostentatiously  to  Fiammetta. 
223 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"Would  you/'  she  asked  sweetly,  "like  to 
see  me  dance  ?  Fraulein  will  play  for  me,  and 
we  have  half  an  hour  before  we  go  down  to 
father  in  the  drawing-room." 

"No,  thank  you,"  Fiammetta  replied  with 
the  utmost  decision;  "I  see  plenty  of  girls 
dancing  at  school,  and  I  can  dance  myseK — 
perhaps  you'd  like  to  see  me  dance?" 

"I  think,"  Viola  said  hastily,  "that  we'd 
better  neither  of  us  dance  just  now,  lest  we 
get  too  hot.  Shall  we  go  out  into  the  garden 
till  reading  time?" 

This  we  did. 

On  the  stroke  of  six  a  bell  was  rung  from 
the  front  door  and  we  all  four  went  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  Aunt  AHce  and  Uncle 
Edward  awaited  us.  It  was  his  custom  to 
read  to  his  family  every  evening  at  this  hour, 
unless  there  happened  to  be  a  garden-party. 
Whatever  anybody  was  doing,  they  were 
haled  to  the  drawing-room  to  hear  Uncle 
Edward  read  aloud. 

"Edward  reads  so  beautifully,"  Aunt  Alice 

always  said,   and  I  dare  say  he  did.    But 

no  one  always  wants  to  listen  to  the  most 

perfect  reading,  and  this  evening  I  noted  with 

224 


The  Staceys  of  Elcombe  House 

some  consternation  that  Fiammetta  was  bored, 
and  showed  it. 

She  fidgeted,  sne  yawned,  she  drummed 
with  her  fingers  on  the  edge  of  her  chair. 
Once  she  shuffled  her  feet,  and  Uncle  Edward 
actually  stopped  and  looked  severely  at  me. 
I  know  he  gave  me  the  credit  for  all  the  small 
disturbances  that  occurred  that  evening, 
whereas  I  was  still  as  a  mouse,  and  far  too 
interested  in  Fiammetta's  frank  manifestations 
of  ennui  to  have  indulged  in  any  myself. 

At  that  time  he  was  going  through  a  course 
of  Jane  Austen,  for  whose  works  he  had  an 
enthusiastic  admiration,  and  I  remember  think- 
ing that  he  was  rather  like  a  Jane  Austen  per- 
son himself,  and  that  she  would  have  "done 
him"  imcommonly  well.  The  book  he  read 
was  "Pride  and  Prejudice,"  most  witty  and 
dehghtful  to  read  in  later  life.  But  children 
miss  the  real  savour  of  its  caustic  wit,  and  I 
know  that  it  was  as  much  over  Fianmietta's 
head  as  over  mine,  even  though  she  was  so 
infinitely  better  versed  in  literature  of  all  kinds 
than  I.  At  seven  Uncle  Edward  ceased,  placing 
a  marker  in  the  page  as  he  closed  the  book. 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  "Fianametta  already 
225 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

knows  this  book  by  heart  and  can  tell  me 
what  comes  next." 

Fiammetta  arose  hastily  from  her  chair 
with  evident  relief:  "Oh,  no/'  she  said  frankly, 
"that's  not  the  sort  of  book  one  knows  by 
heart.  I  don't  think  it's  particularly  interesting 
—do  you?" 

"I  think  it  is  a  masterpiece,"  Uncle  Edward 
replied,  almost  breathless  with  astonishment. 
"I  hope  that  in  a  year  or  two  Viola  and  Her- 
mione  will  know  it,  and  many  others  by  the  in- 
comparable Jane,  as  well  as  they  know  their 
multiplication  table." 

"Do  they  know  that  awfully  well?"  asked 
Fiammetta.  "I  don't;  the  sevens  and  the 
nines  are  so  muddling — my  daddie  quite  agrees 
with  me.    May  we  go  away  now  ?  " 

In  all  my  intercourse  with  Fiammetta,  the 
thing  that  never  failed  of  its  joy  and  wonder 
was  the  way  she  nonplussed  grown  up  people. 
They  seemed  to  have  no  suitable  snub  ready 
for  her.  She  was  not  in  the  least  impertinent, 
but  neither  was  she  deferential  to  their  superior 
intelligence.  In  fact,  she  made  us  question 
sometimes  whether  they  were  so  very  intelli- 
gent. She  lived  on  terms  of  such  absolute 
226 


The  Staceys  of  Elcombe  House 

equality  with  her  father,  such  understanding 
affection  existed  between  them,  that  it  never 
occurred  to  Fiammetta  to  conceal  her  opinions 
or  to  pretend  she  liked  things  merely  to  please 
people  who  happened  to  be  several  years  older 
than  herself.  She  was  quite  prepared  to  show 
Uncle  Edward  good  reasons  for  her  lack  of 
interest  in  "Pride  and  Prejudice"  as  frankly 
as  she  afterwards  gave  them  to  me.  But  she 
had  no  opportunity,  for  I  remember  Aunt  Alice 
hustled  us  out  into  the  garden  with  almost 
unseemly  haste,  and  we  were  set  to  play  golf 
croquet,  in  which  game  Viola  and  Hermione 
excelled,  I  was  only  moderately  good,  and 
Fiammetta  couldn't  play  at  all.  Naturally  she 
did  not  enjoy  herself  much. 

By  lunch  time  on  Saturday  she  was,  as  she 
herseK  put  it,  "thoroughly  issasperated "  with 
things  in  general.  Never  for  one  moment 
were  we  left  alone.  Something  was  arranged 
for  every  minute.  The  Staceys  beheved  in 
organised  games;  "innocent  pastimes  varied 
by  intellectual  pursuits"  was  Uncle  Edward's 
curriculum,  and  it  would  have  been  excellent 
had  there  been  rather  less  of  the  innocent  pas- 
times. Until  quite  recently  the  Staceys  had 
227 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

lived  in  towns,  and  they  had  yet  to  learn  that 
in  the  country  children  can  find  their  own 
amusements  with  the  greatest  ease :  that  Dame 
Nature  is  an  excellent  M.C.,  and  that  the 
queer  plays  children  invent  for  themselves  are 
far  more  entrancing  than  any  game  that  is 
played  by  rule. 

Fiammetta  looked  quite  pale  and  exhausted 
after  a  morning  spent  in  rounders,  clumps, 
golf  croquet  (she  rested  and  watched  us  dur- 
ing this,  as  she  firmly  refused  to  play,  but 
Fraulein  sat  with  her  lest  she  should  be  dull), 
spelling-game,  Puss-in-the-comer,  and  "Earth, 
air,  fire,  and  water." 

Observe  the  judicious  admixture  of  active 
exercise  and  mental  gymnastics. 

"While  I  was  washing  my  hands  for  limch 
she  came  into  my  room,  shut  my  door — I'm 
afraid  she  banged  it — locked  it,  and  stood  with 
her  back  against  it. 

"  Janey,  I  want  to  go  home,"  she  announced. 
"  I  want  to  go  back  to  the  Court  this  afternoon. 
Will  you  ask  them  to  drive  us?" 

"I  can't,"  I  exclaimed,  aghast.     "It  would 
never  do;  we've  been  asked  till  Monday,  and 
we  must  stay  here  till  then." 
228 


The  Staceys  of  Elcombe  House 

"Why  should  I  stay  if  I  hate  it  ?  " 

"Because  it's  all  arranged;  they'd  never 
forgive  us  if  we  went  home;  it  would  be  so 
rude." 

She  began  to  cry.  "I'm  so  tired,"  she 
sobbed,  "sick  and  tired  of  silly  games  that 
one  can  make  so  many  mistakes  in,  and  they 
keep  showing  you  all  the  time.  Janey,  I 
can't  go  on  with  it." 

I  was  horror-struck.  The  luncheon  gong 
would  ring  in  two  minutes,  and  if  Fiammetta 
was  tear-stained  there  would  be  inquiries. 

I  flew  to  her  with  the  towel  in  my  wet 
hands,  and  put  my  arms  round  her.  "Don't 
cry!"  I  besought  her,  "if  you  do,  they'll 
think  I've  been  pinching  you,  or  something," 
and  she  began  to  laugh.  She  dried  her  eyes 
on  the  towel  and  then  said  irrelevantly,  "Paul 
didn't  come.  Why  isn't  he  here,  too,  to  help 
bear  it?" 

"He  wasn't  asked,"  I  said.  "He  doesn't 
do  here  at  all." 

"I  don't  do  either,"  she  protested;    "it's 
a  shame.    When  I  think  of  Paul  wandering 
about  in  that  dear  garden,  doing  exactly  what 
he  likes,  I  could  scream." 
229 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"For  mercy's  sake  don't/'  I  said.  "They'd 
want  to  know  why,  and  then  what  could  you 
say?" 

"Janey,  after  we've  gone  to  bed  and  every- 
thing's quiet,  may  I  come  in  and  sleep  with 
you?    I  wouldn't  be  so  miserable  then." 

"It's  a  very  little  bed,"  I  said  dubiously, 
"and  you're  an  awful  fidget.  I  hear  you 
in  our  room  at  home.  You  go  round  and 
round  like  a  dog." 

"I'll  bring  my  bedclothes  and  sleep  on  the 
floor,  and  go  back  very  early  in  the  morning, 
then  they'll  never  know." 

To  pacify  her,  I  consented  to  this,  well  know- 
ing which  of  us  would  sleep  on  the  floor. 

In  the  afternoon  they  took  us  out  in  the 
motor,  and  this  we  enjoyed,  for  motors  were 
then  something  of  a  novelty,  and  Uncle  Edward 
did  not  come. 

Tea  passed  off  quite  peacefully.  After  tea 
Viola  again  proposed  to  dance  for  us,  and 
again  Fiammetta  politely  but  firmly  gain- 
sayed  the  suggestion  unless  she,  too,  might 
perform  which  was  not  in  the  least  what 
Viola  wanted. 

As  the  fateful  hour  of  six  approached  I 
230 


The  Staceys  of  Elcombe  House 

trembled,  especially  as  Fiammetta  left  us 
without  any  explanation  (we  were  gathered 
on  the  lawn  in  front  of  the  drawing-room 
windows)  and  calmly  walked  into  the  house. 
I  watched  the  slim  blue  figure  vanish;  pre- 
sently she  returned,  carrying  one  of  the  Jungle 
books. 

"WTiat's  the  use  of  getting  that  just  as 
we're  going  in  to  papa?"  asked  Hermy. 

"It's  because  I've  got  to  go  in  to  Mr. 
Stacey  that  I've  fetched  it.  I  don't  care 
for  that  book  about  Mr.  d'Arcy,  so  I'll  read 
this." 

Hermy  and  Viola  gasped,  I  quaked,  Aunt 
Alice  looked  rather  frightened;  Fraulein  and 
Mademoiselle  regarded  Fiammetta  with  silent 
admiration. 

"I  don't  think  papa  would  like  you  to  do 
that,  my  dear,"  Aunt  Alice  said  gently.  "You 
see,  if  he  is  kind  enough  to  read  to  us,  the  least 
we  can  do  is  to  listen  carefully." 

"Why,  if  we  don't  want  to?"  Fiammetta 
persisted.  "If  I  mayn't  read  in  there,  may 
I  stay  out  here  and  read  ?  " 

"Papa  likes  us  all  to  be  present  when  he's 
so  good  as  to  read  to  us,"  Aunt  Alice  said  more 
231 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

firmly.  "It  would  never  do  for  one  of  our 
guests  to  miss  his  reading.  Give  me  that  book, 
dear!" 

Aunt  Alice  held  out  her  hand  for  the  book. 
Fiammetta  put  it  behind  her  back:  "Mrs. 
Stacey,"  she  said  earnestly,  "I  don't  imder- 
stand.  Is  it  like  church?  Nurse  says  we  go 
to  church  here  because  it's  pleasing  to  the 
Almighty — we  never  go  in  London,  daddie  and 
I.  Do  we  have  to  listen  to  Mr.  Stacey  because 
it's  pleasing  to  the  Almighty,  or  what?" 

Aimt  Alice  lost  her  temper.  "You  must 
do  as  you  are  told,"  she  said  shortly.  "Give 
me  that  book.  I  see  papa  at  the  window; 
he  is  ready  for  us." 

With  a  sigh  Fiammetta  handed  over  the 
Jungle  Book  and  we  all  filed  into  the  drawing- 
room. 

Uncle  Edward  sat  in  his  usual  chair,  care- 
fully placed  so  that  the  light  fell  at  exactly 
the  right  angle  upon  his  book.  We  all  settled 
ourselves  to  Hsten  respectfully,  except  Fiam- 
metta, who,  just  as  he  was  about  to  begin,  stood 
up  and  said,  "Mr.  Stacey,  do  you  mind  if  I 
go  into  the  garden  instead  of  listening?" 

Uncle  Edward  gazed  at  Fiammetta  in  the 
232 


The  Staceys  of  Elcombe  House 

utmost  astonishment:  "Don't  you  want  to 
hear  the  reading?"  he  asked. 

"Not  a  bit,"  Fiammetta  said  finnly.  "I 
know  you  do  it  for  kindness  and  all  that,  but 
it  does  bore  me  so.  I  asked  Mrs.  Stacey,  but 
she  seemed  to  think  you'd  mind  .  .  .  you 
don't,  do  you?"  and  she  smiled  in  friendHest 
fashion  at  Uncle  Edward. 

"It  is,  of  course,"  he  said  slowly,  "a  matter 
of  pure  indifference  to  me  whether  you  are 
present  or  not." 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  Fiammetta  said 
sweetly.  "You  don't  mind  now,  do  you, 
dear  Mrs.  Stacey?  And  may  I  have  the 
Jungle  Book  to  take  with  me?" 

She  took  the  book  from  Aunt  Alice's  un- 
resisting hands  as  she  passed.  She  skipped 
out  of  the  window  and  across  the  lawn.  She 
arranged  herself  in  a  garden  chair  with  a  leg- 
rest,  all  in  full  view  of  the  windows  .  .  .  and 
Uncle  Edward  began  to  read. 

He  read  for  an  hour  and  a  half. 

Even  Aunt  Alice  looked  three  times  at  the 
clock  during  the  last  half-hour. 

When  at  length  he  did  finish,  and  Hermy 
and  Viola  and  I  were  about  to  flee  into  the 
233 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

garden  to  hunt  for  Fiammetta,  who  had  long 
ago  tired  of  the  Jungle  Book  and  wandered 
away,  he  stayed  us  with  a  motion  of  his  hand. 

"I  hope,"  he  said  gravely,  "that  you  will 
let  this  evening's  incident  be  a  lesson  to  you, 
an  object-lesson  as  to  how  a  guest  should  not 
behave." 

Hermy  and  Viola  looked  duly  disgusted 
at  Fianunetta's  conduct;  I,  as  usual  when 
confronted  with  Uncle  Edward,  looked  foolish. 
None  of  the  three  of  us  made  any  remark. 
"Remember,"  he  said,  "that  the  perfect  guest 
invariably  falls  in  with  every  custom  of  his 
host.  He  becomes  a  part  of  the  household. 
You  understand?" 

"Yes,  papa,"  said  Hermy  and  Viola  in  duti- 
ful chorus;  "we  will  always  try  to." 

"And  you,  Janey,  will  you  lay  this  lesson 
to  heart?" 

"Yes,  Uncle  Edward,"  I,  too,  said  meekly; 
and  then,  feeling  rather  mean,  I  added,  "but 
father  says  we  ought  to  ask  our  guests  if  they 
like  things." 

"Certainly,"  he  replied  coldly,  "in  reason; 
but  you  cannot  disorganize  the  entire  working 
of  a  household  to  please  a  guest.  Especially," 
234 


The  Staceys  of  Elcombe  House 

he  added,  with  evident  annoyance,  "when  that 
guest  happens  to  be  a  spoilt,  conceited  child." 

"I  don't  think  Fianunetta  is  conceited," 
I  pleaded,  "but  she's  used  to  saying  right 
out  when  she  hates  things " 

"That  will  do,  Janey,"  Aunt  Alice  inter- 
posed hastily.  "Run  away,  children,  and 
find  Fianunetta." 

As  we  ran,  I  reflected  that  Uncle  Edward 
certainly  did  not  himself  fulfil  his  definition 
of  the  perfect  guest.  When  he  stayed  with 
us,  poor  father  couldn't  smoke  a  single  pipe 
in  the  house,  and  all  fruits  that  had  any  sort 
of  a  smell  were  banished  from  the  menu. 

We  found  Fiammetta  at  last  in  the  garage, 
conversing  with  the  chauffeur. 

"He's  really  a  much  more  interesting  man 
than  Mr.  Stacey,"  she  confided  to  me  that 
night  when  she  came  to  sleep  in  my  bed — ^the 
floor  was  hard  and  rather  cold — "he  told  me 
about  all  the  accidents  he's  ever  been  in." 


235 


XVII 
A  soldier's  button 

HIS  family  could  not  understand  why- 
Teddy  had  such  a  passion  for  soldiers. 
Certainly  his  family  neither  inspired  nor  shared 
it. 

Papa  declared  them  to  be  "elementary 
persons  of  a  low  standard  of  intelligence." 

Mummy  was  mildly  negative  in  her  views. 
She  did  not,  like  papa,  express  actual  disap- 
proval of  them  as  a  class;  they  may  even 
have  had  a  dimly-felt  attraction  for  her — she 
was  very  like  Teddy  in  some  ways — ^but  she 
was  a  devoted  wife,  and  it  would  never  have 
occurred  to  her  to  champion  any  cause  or 
individual  disapproved  of  by  papa. 

Teddy's  sisters,  both  considerably  older  than 
he — for  he  was  only  four — ^were  facile  echoes  of 
their  parents.  And,  after  all,  there  was  no 
earthly  reason  why  any  of  the  family  should 
take  any  particular  interest  in  soldiers.  They 
had  seen  very  few.  When  they  did  happen  to 
236 


A  Soldier's  Button 

come  across  a  body  of  men  in  imifonn  march- 
ing to  the  strains  of  a  military  band,  they  doubt- 
less thrilled  for  a  moment  like  everybody  else; 
then  the  soldiers  and  all  they  stood  for  vanished 
from  their  minds  as  from  their  sight. 

But  it  was  otherwise  with  Teddy.  He 
thought  about  soldiers,  dreamed  of  soldiers, 
talked  about  soldiers,  and  asked  incessant 
questions  about  soldiers  all  day  long  and  with 
any  one  he  could  get  to  answer  him.  And 
this  was  the  more  surprising  inasmuch  as  he 
was  not  naturally  a  talkative  child,  being  of  a 
somewhat  taciturn  and  ruminative  disposition. 
It  annoyed  papa,  for,  quiet  and  biddable  as 
Teddy  was  in  every  other  respect,  his  enthusi- 
asm for  the  soldier  subject  was  such  that  no 
amount  of  snubbing  could  keep  him  off  it. 

And  it  started  this  way.  One  year,  on 
their  way  to  the  Highlands,  they  stayed  in 
Edinburgh  for  the  month  of  July.  A  friend 
of  papa's  lent  them  his  flat.  The  flat  was  in 
Ramsay  Gardens,  and  Teddy's  nursery  win- 
dow looked  over  the  Castle  Esplanade.  The 
Black  Watch  was  stationed  at  the  Castle  just 
then,  and  from  his  window  Teddy  beheld  them 
drilling.  He  was  always  seeing  them  when  he 
237 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

went  out,  and  whensoever  he  did  see  them, 
singly  or  in  companies,  he  was  thrilled  to  the 
centre  of  his  little  soul.  It  is  believed  that 
his  nurse  shared  his  enthusiasm,  but  this  was 
not  known  till  long  afterwards.  But  this 
much  is  certain,  that  when  she  and  Teddy 
went  out  to  take  the  air,  whether  he  trotted  by 
her  side,  or  was  seated  proudly  in  his  mail- 
cart,  they  seldom  went  in  any  direction  that 
did  not  either  lead  to,  or  circulate  round  about, 
the  evolutions  of  the  Black  Watch.  Moreover, 
that  regiment  never  marched  in  any  direction 
whatsoever  that  Teddy  and  his  nurse  were  not 
among  the  most  palpitating  of  interested 
spectators. 

Teddy's  nurse  was  distinctly  pleasing  to 
the  eye.  Plump,  fresh-coloured  and  very  neat 
in  her  becoming  uniform,  she  was  of  that 
superior  order  of  nurses  who  are  trained  in 
institutions  guaranteed  to  turn  out  guardians 
of  the  young  not  only  medically  competent  to 
deal  with  every  known  form  of  infantile  disease, 
but  so  deeply  versed  in  psychology  as  to  be 
able  to  draw  out  all  that  is  best,  and  suppress 
anything  that  is  evil,  in  a  child's  character. 

Mummy  had  selected  her  with  extreme 
238 


A  Soldier's  Button 

care,  and  Teddy  was  almost  entirely  in  her 
charge.  Mummy  went  out  a  good  deal,  for 
both  she  and  papa  had  many  friends  in  Edin- 
burgh whom  they  had  not  seen  for  a  very  long 
time.  His  sisters  were  under  the  dominion  of  a 
Fraulein,  so  he  and  his  nurse  were  left  almost 
entirely  to  their  own  devices. 

It  was  a  beautiful  July,  and  they  were 
hardly  ever  kept  indoors  by  bad  weather. 
Teddy's  cheeks  grew  round  and  rosy,  his  eyes 
bright  and  interested,  so  that  his  parents  de- 
clared the  keen  bracing  air  was  doing  him  all 
the  good  in  the  world.  Up  to  that  time  he  had 
been  rather  a  pale,  phlegmatic  child. 

To  get  from  Princes  Street  to  Ramsay 
Gardens  one  has  to  mount  an  exceedingly  steep 
hill,  pretty  stiff  walking  for  a  pedestrian,  and 
real  hard  work  when  you've  got  to  push  a 
mail-cart  with  a  solid  small  boy  in  it.  Yet 
very  often  his  nurse  would  take  Teddy  to 
Princes  Street  Gardens  in  the  afternoon,  and 
generally  on  such  occasions  the  band  of  the 
Black  Watch  discoursed  sweet  music  from  the 
band-stand. 

On  the  return  journey  there  always  ap- 
peared some  kindly  kilted  figure  anxious  to 
239 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"gie  the  bairn  a  hurl"  up  the  steepest  part 
of  the  hill.  Nurse  was  always  very  staid  and 
dignified  on  such  occasions.  She  accepted 
assistance,  it  is  true,  but  with  reservations. 
Moreover,  she  even  tried  to  check  Teddy's 
efforts  in  the  way  of  conversation  with  his 
escort  by  time-worn  aphorisms  to  the  effect 
that  little  boys  should  be  seen  and  not  heard. 
But  here  she  failed  signally. 

"When  I'm  a  man,"  said  Teddy,  during  one 
of  these  deHcious  "hurrls,"  "I  hope  I  sail  be  a 
gate  big  soldier  like  you." 

"You  mean,  my  dear,  that  you  hope  you'll 
be  an  officer,"  nurse  remarked  loftily. 

"A  bave  British  officer,"  Teddy  repeated 
obediently. 

"That's  the  ticket,"  he  of  the  kilt  agreed 
cordially,  quite  unconscious  of  the  implied  snub. 
"I'd  like  fine  to  serve  under  ye  mysd'." 

"I  expect  you'll  be  an  officer  too  by  then," 
Teddy  suggested. 

The  big  soldier  chuckled.  "I'm  no  for  onny- 
thing  o'  that  sort,"  he  said,  shaking  his  head. 
"I'm  for  the  Resairve — when  I  marry,"  he 
added,  with  a  side  glance  at  Teddy's  pretty 
nurse. 

240 


A  Soldier's  Button 

"That  will  do,  Mr.  Macdonald,"  she  said, 
laying  a  neatly-gloved  hand  on  the  handle 
of  the  mail-cart.  "I  can  manage  myself  now; 
we  are  past  the  steepest  part." 

The  soldier  obediently  rehnqnished  the  mail- 
cart.  He  saluted  Teddy,  and  Teddy  saluted 
him  with  great  solemnity.  Then,  with  quite 
equal  solemnity  he  winked,  and  swung  away 
down  the  hill  again. 

Papa's  friend  had  lent  his  servants  as  well 
as  his  flat,  and  among  them  was  a  highland 
housemaid,  called  Campbell  by  the  authori- 
ties but  known  among  her  fellows  as  Girzie. 
And  so  Teddy  knew  her.  Of  course,  nurse 
was  far  too  grand  a  person  to  consort  with 
the  other  servants  on  famihar  terms.  She 
might,  on  occasion,  when  nobody  else  was 
present,  unbend  a  little  towards  a  sergeant- 
major  in  his  splendid  uniform,  but  she  rigor- 
ously enforced  the  distance  her  "training" 
put  between  her  and  the  servants,  and  they 
not  even  of  her  employer's  household.  All 
the  same,  nurse  made  no  objection  when 
Girzie  offered  to  look  after  Teddy  on  such 
occasions  as  she  wanted  an  afternoon  off  in 
the  society  of  that  same  sergeant-major.  And 
241 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Girzie,  who  adored  Teddy,  was  most  accom- 
modating. 

Now  Girzie  had  a  brother  in  the  Black 
Watch.  It  is  true  he  was  "only  just  a  soldier," 
as  Teddy  put  it,  to  distinguish  him  from  the 
more  highly-placed  acquaintance  of  nurse,  but 
he  looked  upon  it  as  a  distinct  advantage,  for 
under  Girzie's  guardianship  he  was  allowed  to 
converse  freely  with  the  short,  thick-set  man, 
who  was  so  agreeably  ready  to  answer  ques- 
tions. 

From  him  Teddy  learnt  the  true  signifi- 
cance of  dirks  and  sporrans  and  philabegs  and 
plaids  and  badges,  and  many  other  things. 
The  letter  R  was  still  a  difficulty  with  Teddy, 
and  he  felt  rather  out  of  it  among  people  who 
seemed  to  take  a  positive  delight  in  giving  that 
letter  an  almost  undue  prominence.  Yet, 
though  Girzie's  brother  did  exclaim  rather 
often,  "eh!  what's  that  you're  sayin'?"  they 
got  on  famously  on  the  whole;  and  though  it 
may  not  be  wholly  flattering  to  be  addressed 
as  "the  wee  stoot  yen,"  yet  Teddy  overlooked 
the  familiarity  because  of  the  affection  in  its 
tone. 

He  was  something  of  an  Ehzabethan  in  his 
242 


A  Soldier's  Button 

simplicity  and  jovial  sense  of  fellowship  with 
his  kind.  And  the  truth  is  that  the  atmosphere 
of  Teddy's  home  was  somewhat  rarefied. 

Papa  was  a  Superior  Person,  quite  excellent 
and  kind  in  all  his  domestic  relations,  but  in 
many  respects  what  more  ordinary  mortals 
called  a  crank. 

He  had  views,  strong  views,  and  he  was 
apt  to  enforce  them:  not  only  upon  his  family, 
whom,  of  course,  in  consequence  of  these  very 
views,  he  felt  bound  to  influence,  but  also  upon 
outsiders,  who,  if  of  a  hasty  disposition,  were 
apt  to  wish  papa  at  Jericho,  or  even  in  some 
still  warmer  place.  He  was  also  a  person  of 
many  and  vigorous  antipathies,  which  he  seemed 
to  think  entitled  him  to  special  consideration. 
Therefore  did  Teddy  feel  that  the  simple  and 
jovial  persons  he  encountered  in  Edinburgh 
filled  a  hitherto  unsatisfied  want  in  his  nature, 
and  he  loved  them  dearly. 

And  they  loved  him ;  for  the  "  wee  stoot  yen  " 
was  irresistibly  frank  and  friendly  and  few  of  us 
are  impervious  to  the  flattery  of  such  respect- 
ful admiration  as  Teddy's  round  face  and  blue 
eyes  plainly  manifested  whenever  he  came  across 
any  of  his  friends  in  the  Black  Watch. 
243 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

One  day  when  he  was  out  with  Girzie  she 
took  him  to  the  Arcade  in  Princes  Street, 
and  there  bought  him  a  doll  dressed  as  a 
Highlander.  Teddy  was  charmed  with  the 
present,  though  he  could  have  wished  that 
the  china  face  under  the  fierce  busby  had 
been  a  thought  less  chubby  and  simpering, 
and  what  really  did  worry  him  was  a  feeling 
that  there  was  something  not  quite  right 
about  the  uniform.  He  didn't  know  what 
it  was,  and  he  was  too  well-bred  and  grateful 
to  Girzie  for  her  kind  present  to  find  any 
fault;  but  when  on  the  way  up  the  hill  they 
met  her  brother,  he  at  once  pointed  out  several 
discrepancies,  which  he  commanded  Girzie  to 
alter,  explaining  how  it  should  be  done.  Girzie 
carried  out  his  instructions  that  night,  and  next 
day  they  christened  the  doll  "Colin  Dougal," 
after  the  said  brother,  and  it  became  Teddy's 
most  precious  possession. 

Colin  Dougal  slept  with  him,  ousting  from 
that  proud  post  a  fluffy  bird  attached  to  an 
elastic  that  had  hitherto  possessed  the  privi- 
lege. Colin  Dougal  accompanied  him  in  his 
mail-cart,  and  sat  beside  him  at  nursery 
meals;   and  to  Colin  Dougal  Teddy  used  to 

244 


A  Soldier's  Button 

sing,  over  and  over  again,  the  refrain  of  an 
old  song  he  had  learned  from  Girzie: — 

"  My  love,  she's  in  Dumbarton, 
Whaur  they  weir  the  tartan, 
Whaur  they  weir  the  tartan — 
Faur  abin  the  knee ! " 

It  seemed  quite  fitting  that  anybody's  love 
should  dwell  in  a  part  of  the  coxmtry  where 
they  wore  that  entrancing  costume,  and  Teddy 
felt  certain  that  Dumbarton  must  be  a  specially 
delightful  place,  and  was  quite  drawn  to  the 
lady.  But  always  after  singing  it  he  was 
assailed  by  doubts  as  to  whether  Colin  Dougal's 
tartan  was  quite  short  enough.  Girzie  had 
shortened  it,  but  the  exigencies  of  his  china 
legs  precluded  the  strict  brevity  of  a  kilt  as 
worn  by  the  Black  Watch.  Still,  the  tartan 
was  the  right  tartan,  and  that  was  something. 

The  pleasant  July  days,  so  long  and  hght, 
sHpped  speedily  away,  till  an  afternoon  came 
when  Teddy,  returning  from  a  walk  with 
Girzie,  foimd  the  nursery  full  of  boxes,  and 
nurse,  who  demanded  the  immediate  surren- 
der of  Colin  Dougal  that  she  might  pack  him. 
245 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

The  little  boy  clasped  his  doll  more  firmly 
in  his  arms,  looked  round  the  dismantled 
nursery,  and  grim  foreboding  laid  a  chilly 
hand  upon  his  heart. 

"What  do  you  want  to  pack  for?"  he  asked 
breathlessly. 

"Because  we're  going  by  an  early  train  to- 
morrow, and  mummy  says  everything  must  be 
ready  to-night." 

"  Going ! "  he  gasped.     "  Going  where  ?  " 

"We're  all  going  to  Kingussie  for  August." 

"I'm  not  going,  I  don't  want  to  go.  I 
want  to  stay  here,  wiv  all  my  fends.  .  .  . 
Do  you,"  he  asked  anxiously,  "want  to  go 
to  Kingussie?" 

Nurse  looked  flushed  and  rather  cross. 

"I'm  not  asked,"  she  muttered,  "what  I 
want,  nor  you  neither,  Teddy.  Give  me  that 
doll  at  once,  and  I'll  pack  him  with  the  other 
toys." 

Teddy  stared  stonily  at  her,  nor  made  the 
smallest  effort  to  surrender  his  doll. 

"I'm  not  going,"  he  said  firmly,  "not  to- 
morrow. Why,  I  haven't  said  good-bye  to 
none  of  them,  have  you?" 

"I  don't  know  what  you're  talking  about," 
246 


A  Soldier's  Button 

said  nurse  huffily;  "give  me  that  doll  at  once, 
you  know  I  don't  allow  disobedience." 

And  as  she  spoke  she  made  a  grab  at  the 
doll. 

Teddy  held  on  with  all  his  strength. 

They  were  starting  for  Kingussie  a  day 
earher  than  had  been  originally  intended,  and 
it  had  only  been  decided  upon  that  morning. 
Miunmy  had  taken  it  upon  herself  to  send 
Girzie  out  with  Teddy,  leaving  nurse  free  to 
pack.  This  had  upset  all  nurse's  plans,  and 
left  Sergeant-Major  Macdonald  kicking  his 
heels  during  a  vain  wait  at  the  bottom  of  the 
hill,  while  Girzie  and  Teddy  went  off  in  quite 
another  direction.  Therefore  nurse  was  de- 
cidedly irritable,  and  rather  roughly  tried  to 
pull  Colin  Dougal  out  of  Teddy's  arms. 

For  a  full  minute  Teddy  held  on  with  all 
his  little  strength,  then  suddenly  and  des- 
pairingly let  go.  And  at  the  same  instant 
nurse  also  let  go,  remembering  that  it  was 
undignified  to  struggle  with  a  small  child  for 
the  possession  of  a  china  doll. 

Colin  Dougal  fell  with  a  thump  upon  the 
floor,  one  of  his  china  legs  broke  right  in  two, 
and  the  severed  half  leapt  gaily  imder  a  chair. 
247 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Teddy  took  a  deep  breath  and  yelled  and 
yelled  and  yelled. 

Papa  and  mummy  heard  him  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, and  rushed  to  the  nursery  to  see 
what  had  happened. 

He  was  standing  stock  still  just  inside  the 
door.  Nurse  had  picked  up  Colin  Dougal  and 
the  bit  of  his  leg,  and  was  vainly  trying  to 
explain  to  her  demented  charge  that  it  could 
easily  be  mended. 

But  Teddy  struck  at  her  with  both  his 
hands,  and  refused  to  be  comforted.  He  also 
continued  to  bawl  with  unabated  vigour  after 
his  parents  had  entered  the  room. 

"What's  this?  What's  this?"  exclaimed 
papa. 

"Are  you  hurt,  my  precious?"  mummy 
inquired  tenderly,  as  she  knelt  beside  her 
little  boy. 

Teddy  did  not  repulse  his  mother,  and 
managed  to  ejaculate  in  the  middle  of  a  roar, 
"I  don't  want  to  go  to  Kingussie !" 

The  accident  to  Colin  Dougal  seemed  a 
minor  woe,  caused  by,  and  included  in,  this 
devastating  news  of  departure. 

"  Nonsense ! "  papa  exclaimed,  looking  pained; 
248 


A  Soldier's  Button 

"not  want  to  go  to  Kingussie!  Why,  it's 
country — real,  beautiful,  quiet  country — ^far 
better  than  this  place,  with  those  infernal  bugles 
braying  from  morning  till  night,  and  the  horrid 
band,  and  all  those  tramping  soldiers.  You'll 
love  Kingussie." 

Teddy  stopped  afresh  in  the  midst  of  re- 
newed efforts  in  the  way  of  yells  to  hiccough 
indignantly  "not — 'femal  bugles!" 

Papa  looked  rather  surprised,  but  his  pained 
look  returned  as  Teddy  started  to  shout  again 
at  the  top  of  his  voice. 

Nurse,  taking  advantage  of  the  general 
confusion,  packed  Colin  Dougal,  and  actually 
wrapped  up  the  piece  of  his  leg  in  a  separate 
bit  of  paper  with  cold-blooded  detachment. 

Mummy  reasoned,  papa  reasoned,  and  nurse, 
who  had  by  this  time  recovered  her  Institu- 
tional serenity,  spoke  soothingly;  but  all  to 
no  avail.  Teddy  continued  to  scream,  to  lose 
his  breath,  and  then  roar  with  renewed  vigour 
when  he  had  got  it  again. 

He  really  made  a  great  to-do. 

Finally  papa  and  mummy  departed  in  de- 
spair. Nurse  went  on  packing,  and  Girzie, 
who  had  been  Hstening  at  the  end  of  the  pas- 
249 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

sage  with  her  hand  against  her  heart,  came  in 
and  took  the  tired,  miserable  little  figure  into 
her  kind  strong  arms  and  sat  down  on  a 
chair. 

"Eh,  Master  Teddy,  and  what'll  the  soldiers 
be  thinkin'  this  night,  to  hear  such  an  awfu' 
stramash  in  this  respectable  house  .  .  .  an' 
both  the  windows  open?  They'll  be  fairaf- 
frontet  to  think  the  young  gentleman  they 
thought  such  a  heap  on  could  cry  like  a  randy 
wife.  They  puir  soldiers  won't  know  what  to 
make  of  it  at  all,  at  all." 

And  Girzie  shook  her  head  as  though  over- 
come with  care. 

Teddy  sat  up  and  stared  at  her,  and  though 
his  breath  still  came  in  sobs  he  made  no  noise. 

"Will  they  mind,  Girzie?"  he  asked  anx- 
iously.    "  Will  they  'eally  mind  ?  " 

"  Mind ! "  Girzie  repeated.  "  Mind !  They'll 
just  be  that  upset — and  you  almost  like  one  o' 
them." 

"Colin  Dougal's  broken  his  leg." 

"Well,  he'll  get  over  that.  My  brother 
broke  his  leg  at  the  football,  and  look  at  him 
now!" 

"But  we're  going  away,  Girzie,  .  .  .  and 
250 


A  Soldier's  Button 

I  haven't  said  good-bye  to  nobody,  not  to 
your  Colin  Dougal  nor  no  one." 

"Never  fear  but  he'll  see  ye  to  say  good- 
bye— ^but  not  if  you  cry — an'  you  going  to  be 
a  grand  officer  gentleman  some  day.  Soldiers 
don't  cry,  laddie.  It  would  be  the  very  last 
thing  they'd  think  of  doing." 

"Not  if  they're  hurted  in  their  hearts? 
— ^nor  never?" 

"Not  that  any  other  person  could  see  or 
hear  them,  you  may  depend  on  that.  And 
you  mustn't  cry  either,  any  way  not  so  loud 
that  folk  could  hear  ye  right  across  the  Es- 
planade. Listen,  laddie,  we'll  no  forget  you. 
My  brother's  just  fair  taken  up  wi'  you,  and 
he's  sent  you  this — ^for  a  bit  keepsake.  It's 
one  o'  his  buttons  made  into  a  safety-pin,  and 
when  you're  a  wee  thing  bigger  you'll  wear 
it  to  hold  down  your  tie  ...  if  nurse'll  let 
you,"  she  added  hastily,  with  an  anxious 
glance  at  nurse,  who  continued  to  pack  in 
absorbed  silence. 

Eagerly  Teddy  untied  the  Httle  packet, 
and  there  was  a  real  soldier's  button  mounted 
as  a  safety-pin. 

"When  can  I  have  a  tie?"  he  asked  eagerly. 
251 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Nurse  came  over  to  them  and  stood  looking 
down  at  the  little  pin.  Her  face  softened. 
"I've  got  one  rather  like  that,  myself,"  she 
said.  "You  can  fasten  it  in  your  blouse 
whether  you  have  a  tie  or  not.  No  one  would 
notice." 

"Can  I  wear  it  always?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  if  you  like,"  nurse  said  graciously, 
"and  perhaps  it  will  help  you  to  remember 
not  to  cry  when  you  fall  down." 

Girzie  said  nothing,  but  she  fastened  the 
brooch  so  that  the  button  shone  resplendent 
just  above  the  ribbons  that  tied  Teddy's 
sailor  blouse. 

"I  will  remember,"  he  said  solemnly. 

"Are  you  sorry  you  were  so  naughty?" 
nurse  asked,  ever  desirous  to  improve  the 
occasion. 

"No,"  said  Teddy  firmly.  "I  hate  Kin- 
gussie." 

But  after  all  he  didn't  hate  Kingussie.  He 
v/ould  have  liked  it  immensely  but  that  it 
rained  nearly  all  the  time.  July  seemed  to 
have  used  up  all  the  nice  weather,  and  August 
was  very  cold  and  wet.  He  got  one  chill  on 
the  top  of  another,  and  sneezed  and  snuffled, 
252 


A  Soldier's  Button 

and  snuffled  and  sneezed,  and  lost  all  the  pretty 
pink  colour  in  his  cheeks  that  he  had  gained  in 
Edinburgh. 

Kingussie  is  a  beautiful  place  with  woods 
and  streams  and  a  glorious  golf  links  covered 
with  short  springy  turf.  Their  lodgings  were 
right  on  the  top  of  a  hill,  and  the  view  from 
the  windows  was  very  lovely,  but  even  the 
lovehest  view  palls  when  it  can  only  be  seen 
through  a  veil  of  driving  rain. 

Toward  the  end  of  their  stay  Teddy  alarmed 
his  family  by  falling  reaUy  ill.  The  local  doc- 
tor took  a  gloomy  view  of  his  case,  and  talked 
of  unripe  blackberries  and  appendicitis.  Papa 
thereupon  carried  the  whole  family  back  to 
Edinburgh  before  the  end  of  the  month.  This 
time  they  stayed  at  the  Caledonian  Hotel, 
where  the  noise  of  Princes  Street  and  the  con- 
stant trains  tried  papa  even  more  than  the  in- 
fernal bugles  in  Ramsay  Gardens. 

A  great  doctor,  who  had  not  yet  started  for 
his  hohday,  was  consulted  about  Teddy,  and 
he  was  even  graver  than  the  doctor  up  in 
Kingussie,  and  said  there  must  be  an  operation 
at  once. 

That  was  a  puzzling  day  for  Teddy. 
253 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

He  was  kept  in  bed  till  evening,  and  nurse 
and  everybody  were  extraordinarily  kind  to 
him. 

Then  mummy  came  and  sat  beside  him 
and  held  his  hand,  and  told  him  that  he  was 
to  go  that  night  to  another  house,  and  that 
the  next  day  the  great  doctor  would  do  some- 
thing for  him  that  would  make  him  quite  well. 

"Why  can't  he  do  it  here?"  Teddy  asked. 

It  seemed  that  people  didn't  have  these 
things  done  in  hotels;  that  doctors  were  par- 
ticular men  who  liked  to  make  people  well 
in  specially  chosen  houses  called  Nursing 
Homes,  and  that  Teddy  was  to  go  to  one  of 
those  homes  that  very  night  in  a  taxi-cab. 

"Will  my  nurse  come?"  he  asked  anxiously. 

"I  will  come,"  said  mummy,  and  her  voice 
sounded  as  if  she,  too,  had  got  one  of  the 
Kingussie  colds. 

"Not  nurse,"  he  repeated,  rather  puzzled. 
"Who  will  dress  me?" 

"There  are  lots  of  nice  nurses  in  the  Home 
who  can  do  that,  but  you  won't  be  dressed 
just  at  first,  you  know.  The  doctor  will  want 
to  keep  you  in  bed  a  little  while  after  the 
operation." 

254 


A  Soldier's  Button 

"What's  a  operation?  What's  it  do  to 
you?" 

But  this  mummy  did  not  seem  able  to 
explain  very  clearly,  and  Teddy  began  to  feel 
rather  doubtful  about  the  whole  thing. 

"Will  it  hurt?"  he  asked  at  last. 

"Not  at  the  time,  my  precious,"  said  Mum- 
my, "but  afterwards  it  may.  I'm  afraid  it 
will,  rather.  I'm  afraid  it  may  hmii  a  good 
deal.  But  you  will  tiy  to  be  brave.  I  know 
you  will  be  brave." 

"A  have— Bittish— officer— "  Teddy  mut- 
tered. Then,  turning  his  big,  bright  eyes 
upon  his  mother,  he  asked  eagerly:  "Can 
I  wear  my  button  ?  " 

Mummy  did  not  understand,  but  nurse  did, 
and  when  it  was  all  explained  he  was  assured 
that  he  should  wear  his  button. 

Then  they  dressed  him,  and  nurse  packed 
a  Httle  suitcase,  with  Colin  Dougal  in  it,  and 
all  his  new  pyjamas  and  his  dressing-gown,  and 
he  and  Mummy  went  alone  together  to  that 
strange  house  full  of  nurses. 

A  great  many  odd  things  happened  that 
night,  and  Teddy  simply  couldn't  have  borne 
the  strangeness  of  it  all  if  his  button  had  not 
255 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

been  fastened  on  the  pocket  of  the  jacket  of 
his  pyjamas:  they  were  real  pyjamas,  two  gar- 
ments, not  baby  ones  fastened  together. 

He  didn't  sleep  very  well  that  night,  but  as 
often  as  he  woke  up  he  touched  his  button  and 
repeated  to  himself  "Guadaloupe,  Martinique, 
Selingapatam,"  which  are  the  first  three  of  the 
long  list  of  battles  fought  by  the  Black  Watch. 
Girzie's  brother  could  say  them  all,  and  Teddy 
loved  to  hear  him  roll  them  out  in  his  strong 
Scottish  voice,  and  tried  to  learn  them  him- 
self, but  they  are  mostly  very  long  names,  and 
only  the  first  three  remained  in  his  mind. 

Every  one  was  most  kind,  but  it  was  depress- 
ing not  to  have  any  breakfast.  Mummy's 
cold  seemed  to  get  worse,  and  one  of  the  nurses 
suggested  that  it  would  be  better  if  she  did  not 
come  as  far  as  the  operating-room  lest  she  should 
give  it  to  Teddy. 

His  heart  was  thumping  in  his  ears.  He 
kissed  mimimy,  he  kissed  Colin  Dougal,  who 
simpered  sweetly  as  usual  (his  leg  hardly 
showed  at  all)  and  was  quite  unmoved;  and 
then,  with  lips  that  trembled,  he  whispered 
"Bave  Bittish  officer"  to  himself  over  and 
over  again. 

256 


A  Soldier's  Button 

He  put  one  hand  into  that  of  the  kind 
nurse,  and  held  his  button  with  the  other, 
and  together  they  went  down  a  long  passage 
into  a  room  that  was  walled  and  floored  with 
white  tiles.  It  had  no  chairs  in  it,  only  tables, 
one  of  them  long  and  narrow  and  high,  right 
in  the  middle  of  the  room.  Two  doctors  were 
waiting  for  them,  and  the  one  Teddy  had  seen 
at  the  hotel  had  his  coat  off  as  if  he  were  going 
to  play  some  game.  He  looked  very  kindly  at 
Teddy  as  they  came  in.  "You're  a  man," 
he  said.     "I  can  see  that." 

"I  sail  not  ky,"  Teddy  said  in  rather  a 
shaky  voice.  "I  sail  not  ky,  because  I'm 
going  to  be  a  soldier,  and  they  don't,  you 
know." 

"I  guessed  that,  the  minute  I  saw  you," 
said  the  doctor.  "We  like  soldiers  here, 
they  get  well  extra  quick.  Up  with  you, 
and  you  mustn't  mind  when  we  put  that  funny 
thing  over  your  face." 

Teddy  lay  down  on  the  high  narrow  table. 
He  looked  up  anxiously  at  the  doctor  he 
didn't  know.  "You  won't  take  my  button 
away,  will  you,  not  when  you  make  me  go 
to  sleep?" 

257 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"Keep  a  tight  hold  of  it,"  said  the  doctor, 
"and  you'll  find  it  there  when  you  wake  up. 
No  one  would  dream  of  touching  it." 

A  soft  rubber  mask  was  pressed  on  Teddy's 
face;  it  was  not  pleasant,  but  it  did  not  hurt. 
Then  came  a  roaring  in  his  ears  like  the  burn 
at  Kingussie  when  it  had  rained  more  than 
usual. 

"A  —  bave  Bittish  —  Guadaloupe,  Marti- 
nique  " 

The  burn  had  swept  little  Teddy  away  into 
oblivion,  but  even  there  the  small  hand  was 
closed  tightly  over  the  soldier's  button. 

That  night  the  doctor  congratulated  papa 
both  upon  the  entire  success  of  the  operation 
and  on  the  splendid  military  training  he  had 
given  his  little  son. 


258 


XVIII 

PAUL  AND  THE   PLAYWRIGHT 

"T  WAS  eight  yesterday,"  said  Paul  to  Thor, 
X    "so  this  week's  different.    I'm  different. 
I'm  older — five  years  older  than  you,  dear, 
though  you  are  so  big." 

Thor  wagged  his  tail  and  looked  sympa- 
thetic. A  deerhound  contrives  to  express  more 
by  his  looks  than  most  humans,  and  Paul 
talked  so  continually  to  Thor  that  the  great 
dog  always  seemed  to  understand. 

"So,"  Paul  continued,  "I  think  it's  time  we 
went  about  a  bit  and  looked  for  an  adventure 
— ^like  him,  you  know.  We've  been  awfully 
good  for  ever  so  long.  You  haven't  stole 
anything,  nor  chased  the  sheep,  nor  ate  any- 
body's slipper,  and  I  haven't  gone  off  for  the 
day,  or  smacked  Lucy,  or  read  a  book  at  meals. 
We've  been  sort  of  saints,  and  it's  time  we  did 
something,  or  we'll  be  turning  into  kind  of 
angels — and  they  always  die,  you  know,  and 
we've  no  time  for  that:  we've  got  ever  such  a 
259 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

deal  to  see  to.  Come  on,  my  dear,  nobody 
wants  us.  Let's  walk  and  walk  till  we  find 
somethin'  instastin'." 

Paul  wasted  no  time  in  preparations.  He 
didn't  even  wait  to  put  on  his  boots.  He  was 
already  equipped  with  his  favourite  weapon, 
a  smooth  roller-like  piece  of  wood  about 
a  foot  long,  which  had  originally  been  used 
as  a  support  for  photographs.  They  had 
been  rolled  roxmd  it  for  postal  purposes.  Paul 
annexed  it  when  he  was  about  three,  christened 
it  his  "chuncheon"  (in  those  days  "r's"  were 
a  difficulty,)  and  had  treasured  it  ever  since. 

Once  Dorcas,  the  under-nurse,  tidied  it 
away  in  her  excess  of  zeal,  when  his  grief  was 
so  uncontrollable  that  the  whole  household 
turned  out  to  hunt  for  it,  and  it  was  finally 
rescued  from  the  dustbin  by  cook. 

Before  setting  out  he  would  fain  have 
divested  himself  of  his  smock,  but  a  smock 
is  a  tiresome  garment  securely  fastened  at 
the  back  by  means  of  treacherous  little  loops 
and  buttons,  quite  too  complex  to  be  success- 
fully tackled  by  the  wearer.  He  did  his  best, 
however,  to  turn  it  into  a  doublet  by  tying 
a  piece  of  string  as  tightly  as  possible  round 
260 


Paul  and  the  Playwright 

his  waist,  and  through  the  string  he  thrust 
his  trusty  "chuncheon."  He  pulled  his  dilapi- 
dated cotton  hat  well  over  his  eyes,  and, 
lest  any  of  the  authorities  should  look  out 
of  the  window  and  inquire  his  intentions, 
he  set  off  down  the  drive  very  slowly,  as 
though  boiuid  for  nowhere  in  particular. 

Nurse  saw  him  strolling  towards  the  gate, 
but  that  was  nothing;  he  was  always  stroll- 
ing about  the  garden  with  Thor — the  only 
wonder  was  that  some  five  other  dogs  had  not 
already  joined  them. 

Mrs.  Button  at  the  lodge  saw  him  go  by 
as  she  was  hanging  out  sheets  on  the  line, 
and  they  "changed  the  weather  and  passed 
the  time  of  day,"  but  she  only  thought  he 
was  going  across  to  the  village  shop  for  some- 
thing, so  she  was  not  curious  or  suspicious 
either. 

At  "The  Cat  and  Compasses"  Paul  stopped. 
Mr.  Mumford,  the  landlord,  was  standing  in 
the  doorway  leaning  on  a  hoe.  They  greeted 
each  other  suitably,  and  Paul  remarked,  "  Miss 
Goodlake's  stopped  in  bed:  She's  got  a  head- 
ache  " 

"Sorry  to  'ear  it,  Fm  sure,"  Mr.  Mumford 
261 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

replied  sympathetically.  "Per'aps  the  sun  'ave 
been  a  bit  too  strong  for  she." 

"Janey  and  Fiammetta,"  Paul  continued, 
unconcerned  as  to  the  causes  of  Miss  Good- 
lake's  headache,  "are  doing  their  lessons 
alone.  They're  hearing  each  other,  and  they 
said  I  disturbed  them,  so  Thor  and  I've  come 
off  together." 

He  paused  and  looked  expectantly  at  Mr. 
Mumford,  as  though  waiting  for  a  suggestion 
of  some  sort. 

Mr.  Mumford  is  shaped  rather  like  a  pair 
of  bellows  with  two  substantial  legs  instead 
of  one  slim  one.  He  completely  filled  his 
own  doorway,  and  perspiring  and  benevolent, 
looked  down  at  Paul. 

"I  wish  as  I  could  ast  you  to  come  in  and 
set  a  bit,  Master  Paul,"  he  said  apologeti- 
cally, "but  my  missus  she  be  a-cleanin',  and 
when  a  woman  gets  a-cleanin',  the  'ouse 
beant  no  place  for  the  likes  of  we.  Not  a 
moment's  peace  or  quiet  to  be  'ad.  You 
knows  what  'a'  be,  doan't  'ee.  Master  Paul?" 

Here  Mr.  Mumford  winked  at  Paul,  who 
wagged  his  head  sympathetically  as  the  sum- 
mer stillness  was  broken  by  the  clashing  of 
262 


Paul  and  the  Playwright 

pails,  the  sound  of  falling  brooms,  and  a 
strident  voice  exclaimed,  "Sammle!  you  get 
along  down  garden  an'  weed  them  there  pars- 
nips. That  bed  be  disgrace  to  be'old.  You 
take  'oe  along;  be  off  now,  don't  'ee  stand 
gossipin'  there,  ye  lazy  varmint,  you!" 

With  a  groan  Mr.  Mumford  seized  the  hoe, 
turned  back  into  the  bar,  and  disappeared 
from  view.  Paul,  congratulating  Thor  on 
the  fact  that  neither  of  them  had  a  missus 
who  insisted  on  the  weeding  of  parsnips  on 
such  a  hot  morning,  strolled  through  the 
village.  It  was  not  yet  ten  o'clock,  and  no 
one  was  to  be  seen.  All  the  women  were 
busy  indoors,  the  men  at  work.  The  sky 
was  blue,  the  sun  was  hot,  and  a  ribbon  of 
white  road  lay  before  them  "beckoning  and 
winding."  So  he  and  Thor  set  off  at  a  good 
pace,  and  Paul  muttered  as  he  went,  "He 
would  have  given  his  housekeeper  and  his 
niece  for  a  fair  opportunity  of  kicking  the 
traitor  Galabon,"  adding  thoughtfully,  "They'd 
be  about  as  bad  as  a  missus,  I  expect." 

Of  course  the  quotation  came  from  the 
Book  of  the  Moment,  which,  just  then,  hap- 
pened to  be  Don  Quixote.  He  had  found 
263 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

the  Mad  Knight  in  the  attic,  an  old  transla- 
tion in  four  volumes,  published  in  1810,  with 
a  map  and  many  steel  engravings.  He  read 
it  right  through  with  his  usual  absorbed  in- 
terest, but  expressed  regret  that  there  was 
such  "an  awful  lot  about  lovers  and  that." 
The  Don's  passion  for  the  peerless  Dulcinea 
he  did  not  attempt  to  understand,  and  the 
long  love  stories  of  other  people  interspersed 
throughout  bored  him.  But  the  adventures 
thrilled  him,  and  Sancho  Panza's  was  a  char- 
acter that  he  got  on  terms  with  at  once. 
There  was  something  dear  and  familiar  about 
the  sturdy  Sancho:  something  of  Mr.  Mum- 
ford. 

For  although,  so  far  as  Paul  knew,  Mr. 
Mumford  never  went  further  afield  than  Gar- 
chester,  still  he  was  confident  that,  did  occa- 
sion arise,  Mr.  Mumford  would  not  fail  him. 
Paul  often  pictured  himself,  attended  by 
this  faithful  henchman,  riding  forth  on  two  of 
his  father's  best  hunters,  to  seek  their  fortunes 
in  an  unknown  world. 

It  is  true  that  he  had  never  in  so  many 
words  mooted  the  idea  to  Mr.  Mumford  in 
any  of  their  more  intimate  conversations, 
264 


Paul  and  the  Playwright 

but  he  felt  assured  that  Mr.  Mumford  would 
never  suffer  him  to  set  out  alone  and  un- 
aided. 

He  was,  perhaps,  a  thought  disappointed 
that  this  boon  companion  had  not  suggested 
going  with  him  that  very  morning,  but  he 
acquitted  him  of  all  intentional  disloyalty, 
when  he  reflected  on  the  compelling  quahties 
of  the  voice  that  hailed  the  unwilling  Sanmile 
to  the  parsnip  bed.  He  was  sure  Mr.  Mum- 
ford  would  have  preferred  to  accompany  him 
— ^which  is  quite  likely. 

It  was  impossible  to  be  Don  Quixote  with- 
out an  attendant;  so,  somewhat  regretfully, 
Paul  fell  back  upon  the  beloved  Boots,  the 
resourceful  and  ever-conquering  third  son  of 
his  favourite  Fairy  Book. 

Here,  Thor  was  quite  in  the  picture. 

It  is  true  that  in  "Tales  from  the  Norse" 
there  isn't  much  about  dogs.  Horses  play  all 
the  larger  parts,  but  "lots  of  animals  come  in," 
and  Paul  liked  that.  "After  all,"  he  remarked 
complacently  to  Thor,  "we  shan't  have  to  keep 
on  being  in  love  on  such  a  hot  morning." 

Paul's  view  of  love-making  strongly  re- 
sembled that  of  cook,  who,  when  she  caught 
265 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Greenwood,  the  groom,  kissing  the  kitchen- 
maid,  boxed  their  several  ears,  but  related  the 
incident  quite  dispassionately  to  mother,  con- 
cluding her  recital  with  the  remark,  "I  don't 
hold  with  it  myself,  but  there — I  suppose  it's 
pleasing  to  some." 

Paul,  too,  was  quite  ready  to  allow  that  it 
might  be  "pleasing  to  some";  but  his  mood 
that  morning  was  not  attuned  to  the  contempla- 
tion of  transcendently  beautiful  ladies.  He 
pined  for  the  society  of  a  like-minded  bachelor, 
a  jolly  bachelor  of  sociable  habits,  who  would 
understand  and  sympathise  with  a  desire  to 
be  free  for  a  while  from  the  tyranny  of  the  tem- 
pestuous petticoat. 

So  they  strolled  along  in  the  middle  of  the 
winding  road  for  nearly  a  couple  of  miles, 
then  an  open  gate  into  an  unfamiliar  field 
invited  them,  and  they  went  in  and  crossed 
it.  Paul  climbed  and  Thor  leapt  the  gate 
into  the  next.  There  were  sheep  in  that 
field,  but  Thor  resisted  temptation,  and  rested 
quietly  with  his  master  under  the  shade  of 
an  elm.  On  again  across  more  fields,  meeting 
with  no  adventures  whatsoever.  All  the  trolls, 
giants,  witches,  lions,  pirates,  knights  and 
266 


Paul  and  the  Playwright 

princesses  seemed  to  have  remained  indoors  or 
miderground  that  morning. 

A  man  shouted  at  them  once,  but  he  was 
too  far  off  to  discover  whether  his  words 
were  friendly  or  the  reverse.  Previous  ex- 
perience, however,  led  Paul  to  beheve  they 
were  in  some  way  "be  off  out  of  that-ish!" 
and  he  hurried  away  in  an  opposite  direction. 

His  feet  ached  and  the  soles  of  his  shoes 
felt  very  thin.  He  decided  that  the  moment 
they  struck  the  road  again  he'd  make  for  the 
very  first  house  in  sight  and  ask  for  some 
water  for  both  of  them. 

At  last  they  reached  a  field  bordered  by 
a  road.  They  pushed  through  a  gap  in  the 
hedge  and  found  themselves  not  far  from 
four  crossroads  and  a  church.  Paul  made 
for  the  church,  for  as  a  rule  where  churches 
are,  houses  are  not  far  off — and,  sure  enough, 
right  opposite  the  church  gate  was  one  that 
led  into  somebody's  drive  with  an  exceedingly 
trim  lodge  on  the  left-hand  side. 

He  paused,  undecided  for  a  moment  whether 

to  go  round  to  the  back  door,  which  would 

be  certain  to  be  open,  and  ask  for  water  from 

the  lady  of  the  lodge,  or  go  right  up  the  drive 

267 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

and  see  what  the  people  of  the  house  were 
like. 

If  he  went  to  the  back  and  rapped  with  his 
knuckles  a  woman  would  come  out — he  was 
sure  of  that.  She  might  be  washing;  she 
might  be  displeased  at  the  interruption;  she 
would  be  almost  certain  to  disapprove  of 
Thor. 

He  decided  to  go  up  to  the  house. 

Here,  as  everywhere  else  that  morning, 
there  was  not  a  soul  in  sight  and  it  was  very 
still.  The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens,  and 
the  great  lawns  in  front  of  the  house  stretched 
almost  shadowless — green  and  shaven  and 
smooth.  It  was  a  pretty  house:  irregular, 
long  and  low,  covered  with  creepers,  with 
sloping  roofs,  clustering  chimneys,  and  kindly- 
looking  gables — a  restful  house,  Paul  thought 
wistfully.  Would  they  let  him  go  in  and  sit 
a  bit? 

The  open  front  door  was  hooded  by  a  deep 
simblind,  but  he  peeped  underneath  and  be- 
held a  cool  dark  hall,  absolutely  untenanted; 
and  here,  too,  the  same  soft,  all-pervading 
silence.  It  was  veiy  hot  out  on  the  gravel 
diive;  there  seemed  no  shadows  anywhere. 
268 


Paul  and  the  Playwright 

Even  a  cedar-tree  on  the  far  side  of  a  wide 
lawn,  though  it  looked  dark  and  cool,  threw 
hardly  any  shade. 

Thor's  tongue  was  hanging  out,  and  he 
turned  his  beautiful  grave  eyes  on  his  master 
with  the  clear  question,  "How  long  are  we  to 
stand  here?" 

Presently  Paul  became  conscious  of  a  faint 
sound:  a  sharp,  irregular,  clipped  sort  of 
sound,  that  was  neither  a  tap  nor  a  click, 
but  a  cross  between  the  two. 

The  country-bred  child  is  a  connoissem*  in 
sounds,  and  here  was  one  quite  new  to  him. 
Thor,  too,  heard  it,  and  looked  inquiring. 

They  moved  away  in  its  direction  and 
came  upon  another  door.  This,  too,  had  its 
sunblind.  This,  too,  was  open,  and  the  curious 
sound  was  coming  from  the  room  within  that 
door. 

Paul  dived  underneath  the  sunblind  and 
Thor  followed  him. 

They  found  themselves  in  what  appeared 
to  be  a  small  square  porch  leading  to  the 
room  within.  It  contained  nothing  but  a 
fixed  basin  with  a  tap  and  a  towel-rail.  Here 
at  all  events  was  water. 
269 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Paul  ran  some  into  the  basin,  and  Thor 
put  his  paws  on  the  edge,  reared  his  great 
body,  sloped  his  head,  and  drank  greedily. 
And  all  the  time  that  curious  noise  continued, 
that  indescribable,  irregularly  recurrent  sound, 
that  was  half  tap,  half  click,  with  a  mysterious 
scrape  occurring  every  thirty  seconds  or  so. 
When  Thor  had  finished  his  drink,  Paul  formed 
his  own  hands  into  a  cup  and  drank  from  them; 
he  whispered  to  Thor  to  lie  down,  and  stood 
himself  in  the  open  doorway  leading  to  the 
room  whence  the  sound  came. 

He  forgot  how  his  feet  ached,  he  forgot 
how  desperately  hungry  he  was,  for  he  felt 
that,  at  last,  he  had  come  up  with  the  adventure 
he  had  been  questing  all  that  long  hot  morning. 

Never  had  he  beheld  such  a  delightful 
room.  It  was  large  and  high,  with  two  big 
wide-open  windows,  which,  however,  were  not 
like  ordinary  windows,  for  they  started  ever 
so  far  from  the  ground,  like  those  in  a  studio. 
The  panelling,  where  it  could  be  seen  for  books, 
was  white;  but  there  was  no  glare,  for  books 
were  everywhere,  books  in  many-hued  bindings, 
making  irregular  patches  of  subdued  colour. 
Nearly  all  looked  as  though  they  had  sat  long 
270 


Paul  and  the  Playwright 

in  their  shelves,  and  wore  the  pleasant  faded 
tints  that  time  brings  to  things  cared-for  and 
well-loved.  There  was  one  line  of  vivid  red 
that  Paul  recognised  with  a  Httle  thrill  (for  we 
had  it  at  home)  as  the  "Elephant"  edition  of 
"  The  man  who  made  MowglV  But  these  were 
on  a  high  shelf,  and  the  steps  were  too  far  off 
for  him  to  drag  them  over  without  making 
a  noise.  Besides,  for  once,  it  was  not  the 
books  that  most  interested  Paul;  it  was  what 
he  afterwards  described  as  "a  kind-of-man- 
ness"  about  the  room. 

"It  was  all  such  a  jolly  muddle  and  so  com- 
fortable." 

If  there  were  many  books  there  were  even 
more  papers.  He  didn't  mean  newspapers 
and  magazines,  though  there  were  plenty  of 
them — it  was  the  quantities  of  letters  that 
impressed  him.  Never  had  he  seen  so  many 
letters,  not  even  at  Christmas.  They  were 
strewed  about  everywhere,  and  on  the  floor 
behind  the  great,  double,  knee-hole  table,  an 
open  trunk  was  lying  full  of  them — stuffed 
in  pell-mell,  anyhow. 

All  the  furniture  was  big  and  soHd  and 
comfortable.  There  were  two  pianos — "a  big 
271 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

one  and  a  little  one";  a  huge  sofa  that  invited 
repose  on  the  part  of  the  slothful;  great,  deep 
chairs;  steady  tables;  nothing  to  upset  any- 
where; no  tiresome  "frippy"  things. 

And  seated  at  the  knee-hole  table  was  a 
man  who  wore  spectacles:  a  biggish  man 
going  bald,  with  grey  hair,  grey  moustache, 
and  short,  closely-trimmed  grey  beard.  Paul 
decided  that  he  liked  the  look  of  him,  and 
that  there  was  something  familiar  in  his 
appearance;  that  he  had  met  this  man  before 
somewhere  in  a  story.  He  knitted  his  brows 
and  thought  deeply,  never  taking  his  eyes 
off  him,  but  he  couldn't  place  him.  Never- 
theless he  was  sure  of  him.  He  was  one  of 
the  imderstanding.  "He  didn't  look  a  'run- 
away-and-play'  sort  of  a  man,"  Paul  said 
afterwards,  "nor  the  sort  who  says  'my  boy/ 
and  he  didn't  ever — not  once." 

It  was  he  who  was  making  that  queer  noise. 
He  was  playing  with  both  hands  on  a  kind  of 
mstrument. 

Paul  accepted  the  noise  as  some  novel  and 

not  very  agreeable  form  of  music.    He  guessed 

the  man  was  musical  from  the  fact  that  he  had 

two  pianos.    But  why,  having  two  real  pianos, 

272 


Paul  and  the  Playwright 

he  should  play  on  that  horrid  Httle  one,  puzzled 
Paul  extremely.  It  was  not  neariy  so  pleasing 
to  the  ear  as  one  he  himself  possessed,  which 
you  played  by  thumping  the  keys  with  a 
hammer  made  of  cork.  It  was  possible  to  get 
some  sort  of  tune  out  of  that. 

Chck-cHck — cHck-cHck-click — the  man  could 
play  very  fast.  He  used  both  hands,  and 
was  so  absorbed  in  the  time  he  was  trying 
to  make  that  he  never  noticed  Paul.  He 
appeared  to  change  his  music  very  often,  and 
it  seemed  rather  a  business  to  get  it  fixed  in 
the  stand,  and  one  thing  that  interested  Paul 
was  that  when  he  chose  a  new  piece  he  always 
put  in  a  black  sheet  of  paper  behind  it.  Just 
inside  the  door  Paul  stood  gazing  absorbedly. 
Had  the  man  looked  up  he  must  have  seen 
him. 

"I'll  wait  till  he's  finished  practising,"  Paul 
resolved,  "then  we'll  talk." 

The  door  was  at  the  side,  not  in  the  middle 
of  the  end  wall,  and  that  wall  was  entirely 
covered  by  a  huge  bookcase — by  stretching 
out  his  hand  he  could  have  taken  a  book  from 
the  shelves,  and  he  was  greatly  tempted.  But 
he  thought  it  would  hardly  be  poUte,  as  the 
273 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

man  was  there.  Had  the  room  been  empty- 
he  would  have  had  no  such  scruples. 

He  was  tired,  so  he  sat  down  on  the  floor 
and  leant  against  the  lintel  of  the  open  door. 

"I  wish  he'd  play  a  tunier  tune/'  he  thought. 

Thor  lay  full  length  in  the  little  room  with 
the  basin,  his  nose  between  his  paws,  his 
speaking  eyes  fixed  on  his  master.  There  was 
no  sound  at  all  except  that  eternal  click-click. 

"I  kept  thinking,"  Paul  said  afterwards, 
"how  splendid  it  would  have  been  to  play 
^Camptown  Races'  against  Harry.  I'd  have 
had  the  biggest  piano  and  drowned  him." 
Harry  could  play  "Cock  o'  the  North"  on  the 
black  notes.  Paul  could  thump  out  "Camp- 
town  Races"  with  one  finger!  Occasionally, 
when  they  got  the  chance,  they  would  per- 
form against  each  other,  one  on  the  school- 
room the  other  on  the  drawing-room  piano. 
Paul  was  envious  of  Harry's  achievement,  but 
the  black  notes  were  beyond  him,  and  "Cock 
o'  the  North"  skips  about  so. 

If  you  start  "Camptown  Races"  on  F  natural 
it's  all  plain  sailing;  the  same  note  is  repeated 
so  often  that  it  is  not  difficult. 

Paul  stretched  out  his  legs  luxuriously  and 
274 


Paul  and  the  Playwright 

pictured  the  amazing  row  he  and  Hany  could 
produce  on  those  two  pianos  in  what  he  was 
pleased  to  call  their  "duet." 

Presently  the  man  stopped  playing  on  his 
unmelodious  instrument  and;  looking  over  his 
spectacles  across  the  room  towards  the  door, 
saw  Paul.  He  immediately  took  off  his  glasses, 
and  his  eyes  were  blue  and  keen  and  kind. 

Paul  scrambled  to  his  feet.  "How  d'you 
do?"  he  said  politely.  "I  just  called  in  as  I 
was  passing." 

The  man  looked  rather  astonished.  "Where 
were  you  going?"  he  asked. 

Paul  came  slowly  across  the  room  until  he 
stood  close  by  the  big  desk.  "Nowhere  in 
particular.    We've  just  come  out  for  the  day." 

"We!"  the  man  repeated.  "Are  there  any 
more  of  you?"    And  he  looked  rather  anxious. 

"Only  Thor,"  Paul  answered  reassuringly. 
"He's  sitting  in  the  little  room  with  the  basin 
— ^I  hope  you  don't  mind.  We  both  drank 
some  water,  but  we  didn't  wash — not  without 
leave.    May  Thor  come  in  ?  " 

"He'd  better,  I  think,"  said  the  man. 

"You  may  come  in,  my  dear,"  Paul  said, 
quietly,  without  raising  his  voice,  and  Thor, 
275 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

large,  deliberate,  and  graceful,  strolled  into  the 
room,  looked  inquiringly  at  the  man,  wagged 
his  tail  gently,  and  came  and  stood  by  his 
master. 

"This  is  Thor,"  said  Paul.  "Do  you  mind 
him?" 

"Not  a  bit !"  said  the  man.    "I  like  him." 

"Sometimes,"  Paul  remarked,  "people  are 
afraid  he'll  upset  things;  he's  so  large,  you 
know.  .  .  .  But  it  wouldn't  be  easy  to  upset 
things  here.  Would  you  mind  teUing  me  why 
you  kept  playing  that  funny  tune?  Do  you 
think  it's  pretty?" 

"Tune?"  the  man  repeated.    "When?" 

"Just  a  minute  ago — ever  since  I  came  in, 
and  outside.  I  heard  you;  it's  what  made 
me  come.    I  couldn't  think  what  it  was." 

"Can  you  read?"  asked  the  man. 

"Read!"  Paul  exclaimed.  "I  should  think 
so;  years  and  years  ago." 

The  man  handed  him  one  of  the  pages  he 
had  been  playing. 

"That's  what  I  was  doing,"  he  said. 

"Why,  it's  print!"  cried  Paul. 

"Exactly;  nicer  than  handwriting,  isn't  it?" 

Paul's  quick  eyes  devoured  the  page. 
276 


Paul  and  the  Playwright 

"Like  Shakespeare,"  he  added. 

The  man  laughed.  "I  only  wish  it  was/' 
he  said. 

"It's  a  play,  anyway,  isn't  it?" 

"It  is." 

"And  you've  been  making  it  up  as  you  go 
along?" 

"Well,  hardly  that,  but  I  scribble  it  down 
first,  you  know." 

"Does  it  spell  for  you?"  Paul  asked  breath- 
lessly. 

"No,  it  doesn't,  bother  it — that's  where  it's 
rather  snifify  sometimes." 

"When  I'm  grown  up,"  Paul  said  solemnly, 
"and  rich — I  hope  I'll  be  rich — I'll  have  one 
of  those,  but  I'll  get  one  that  does  the  spelling 
as  well.    I  suppose  they  are  made." 

"I  haven't  come  across  one  yet,"  said  the 
man;  "when  I  do  I  shall  buy  it  at  once " 

"And  you'll  tell  me,  won't  you?"  Paul  said 
eagerly. 

"I'll  let  you  know  very  first  thing !" 

"Would  you  like  me  to  read  some  more  of 
your  interesting  play?"  he  asked.    "I  can't 
quite  make  out  what  it's  all  about  beginning 
in  the  middle  like  this." 
277 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"I  don't  think  I'd  read  it  just  now/'  said 
the  man.  "You  see,  I  want  to  talk  to  you. 
I  want  to  know  all  sorts  of  things." 

"I  came  in  on  purpose  to  have  a  chat," 
Paul  remarked  genially.  "Do  you  mind  if  I 
sit  down  ?  My  feet  do  ache  so — Lie  down,  my 
dear;  the  gentleman  doesn't  mind  you." 

The  man  pulled  up  a  comfortable  chair  for 
Paul.  Thor  lay  down  at  his  feet,  and  then 
their  host,  in  his  chair  by  the  desk,  swung 
round  and  faced  them. 

"I  suppose  now,"  said  Paul,  "you  haven't 
got  a  missus,  have  you?" 

"What  makes  you  think  that?"  asked  the 
man. 

"Well,  you  see,  there's  such  a  muddle  of 
papers,  isn't  there?  She'd  never  let  you  keep 
it  like  that.  Mr.  Mumford  says  his  missus  is 
always  cleanin'  and  sortin'  and  putting  things 
away.  Not,"  he  added  truthfully,  "that  Mr. 
Mumford  gets  many  letters — I've  never  seen 
any  in  his  house." 

"It's  not  always  like  this,"  pleaded  the  man. 
"Sometimes  it's  awfully  tidy." 

"Oh,  but  I  like  it  like  this,"  Paul  exclaimed 
eagerly.  "Have  you  a  housekeeper  and  a 
278 


Paul  and  the  Playwright 

niece    by    any   chance?     Do   they   tidy    for 
you?" 

"Why  a  housekeeper  and  a  niece?"  asked 
the  man. 

"He  had,  you  know — Don  Quixote.  I've 
been  playing  at  him  a  good  deal  lately. 

"Do  you  generally  play  at  the  people  you 
read  about?" 

"Always,"  Paul  said  solemnly.  "What 
would  be  the  good  of  reading  about  them  else?" 

"I  suppose  it's  a  good  plan,"  the  man  said 
musingly;  "it  must  lead  you  into  many  ad- 
ventures." 

"It  does,"  Paul  said  solemnly.  "This  is 
one  of  them,  and  you,  I  suppose,  are  a  sort  of 
magician,  since  you  make  plays.  Do  people 
really  act  them?" 

"Not  as  often  as  I  could  wish,"  the  man 
said,  "...  but  it's  great  fun  all  the  same." 

"Do  you  play  at  being  the  people?" 

The  man  shook  his  head.  "I'm  afraid  not," 
he  said  sadly.  Then  more  to  himself  than  to 
Paul — "That's  the  hardest  thing  of  all  to  do; 
to  look  on  is  much  easier. 

"I  don't  care  for  looking  on,"  said  Paul  de- 
cidedly.   "I  want  to  he  it  all  the  time." 
279 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"I  suppose  we  all  do  to  begin  with,  and 
then  ...  we  find  out  that  lookers-on  see 
most  of  the  game." 

"I  don't  care  much  about  seeing  games. 
I'd  rather  play  them;  it's  much  more  fun 
really.    Truly  it  is,"  he  said  earnestly. 

"  Doubtless  you  are  right,"  ,  the  man  said 
courteously,  "but,  you  see,  we  don't  all  care 
for  the  same  games." 

"When  I'm  grown  up — and  rich,"  Paul  an- 
nounced, "I  shall  write  books " 

"You're  wise  to  be  rich  first,"  murmured 
the  man. 

"I  shall  write  books,"  Paul  continued,  "with 
that  little  piano,  and  when  I'm  not  writing  I 
shall  play  at  being  all  the  people  in  my  books 
— one  after  the  other — at  least,  all  the  nice 
ones,  who  are  successful." 

"Are  the  nice  ones  always  successful?" 

"In  the  end,  always.  Of  coiu^e,  they  have 
trials  and  things." 

"What  about  Don  Quixote?"  asked  the 
man. 

Paul  looked  imhappy.  "It  worries  me,"  he 
said.  "It  worries  me  dreadfully.  He  was  so 
nice  and  so  silly  and" — the  corners  of  Paul's 
280 


Paul  and  the  Playwright 

mouth  went  down — "and  ...  he  died  in  the 
end." 

"I  quite  agree  with  you/'  said  the  man. 
"It  is  worr3dng.    Don't  let  us  talk  about  it." 

Thor  suddenly  sat  up  on  his  haunches  and 
tried  to  Hck  Paul's  face. 

"You  seem,"  said  Paul,  "to  be  very  fond  of 
reading,  you've  such  a  splendid  lot  of  books. 
Do  you  ever,  by  any  chance,  read  at  meals?" 

Paul  held  him  with  stem,  searching  eyes. 

"Only  when  I'm  alone,"  the  man  said 
primly. 

"Never  when  people  are  there?"  Paul 
asked,  fixing  him  with  a  gaze  that  seemed  to 
search  his  very  soul. 

"Well  .  .  .  only  at  tea-time  .  .  .  occasion- 
ally. .  .  .    Why  do  you  ask  ? " 

"Because,"  Paul  answered,  "they're  all  so 
down  on  me  for  doing  it.  I  always  want  to 
read  at  tea-time,  and  they  won't  let  me.  Now 
I  shall  tell  them  you  do  it;  that'll  surprise 
'em." 

"Oh,  don't!"  the  man  urged,  "don't  give 
me  away.    They'd  be  so  shocked." 

"Of  course,  I  shan't  say  anything  if  you'd 
rather  I  didn't,"  Paul  remarked  magnani- 
281 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

mously,  "but  I  thought  if  I  just  mentioned  a 
grown-up  gentleman  did  it  they  couldn't  be 
so  down  on  me!  .  .  .  But  I  truly  won't  if 
you'd  rather  not.  I  guessed  you  did  it  the 
minute  I  saw  you." 

"I'm  quite  certain  neither  of  us  ought  to," 
said  the  man,  "but  it  is  a  temptation  .  .  . 
when  the  conversation  is  dull." 

"It's  often  jolly  dull,"  Paul  groaned — and 
at  that  moment  a  gong  sounded. 

"That's  for  luncheon,"  said  the  man.  "Are 
you  hungry?" 

"I'm  starving,  and  do  you  think  there  wiU 
be  any  little  bits  for  Thor?" 

"Sure  of  it,"  said  the  man.  "Would  you 
like  to  wash?  And  do  you  require  any  .  .  . 
assistance?" 

The  man  looked  down  at  Paul;  he  had  to 
look  rather  a  long  way,  for  Paul  was  very 
small  for  his  age.  Perhaps  it  was  that  made 
him  ask.    Anyway  Paul  was  not  offended. 

"I  can  wash  all  right,"  he  said,  "but  nurse 
generally  gives  my  hair  a  bit  of  a  do — ^but  if 
you  don't  mind  I  don't." 

They  went  up  some  steps  and  through  a 
glass  door  into  another  room — more  like  other 
282 


Paul  and  the  Playwright 

people's  rooms  this — tidy  and  arranged  like 
other  drawing-rooms,  then  across  the  hall  to 
the  dining-room,  where  an  elderly  parlour- 
maid with  a  kind  face  put  a  fat  book  on  Paul's 
chair  to  make  it  high  enough. 

He  was  desperately  hungry,  and  the  lunch 
was  very  good,  but  he  couldn't  have  enjoyed 
it  as  much  if  the  kind-looking  parlour-maid 
had  not  brought  a  big  plate  of  scraps  for  Thor, 
and  spread  a  duster  imder  it. 

Paul  liked  his  host.  He  liked  the  sense  of 
good  fellowship,  the  absence  of  patronage,  the 
imusual  reticence  that  abstained  from  ques- 
tions as  to  why  he  was  there  at  all. 

"Do  you  know  my  father?"  he  asked  pres- 
ently. 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  said  the  man,  "but  if  you 
tell  me  his  name  I  dare  say  I  may  have  heard 
of  him." 

"He's  not  at  all  like  me,"  Paul  announced. 
"He's  awfully  sensible,  every  one  says  that, 
but  he's  a  most  good-natured  man  and  kind 
as  kind.  Surely  you  must  know  Squire  Stan- 
Hand?" 

The  man  shook  his  head.    "I'm  afraid  not, 
though  I  have  heard  his  name." 
283 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"What  county  are  we  in?"  asked  Paul. 

The  man  told  him,  and  it  was  not  our  county. 

"Then  we've  walked  right  into  another 
shire,"  Paul  exclaimed.  ''What  a  way  we've 
come!    That's  why  you  don't  know  father." 

"What  about  your  people?"  asked  the 
man.    "Won't  they  wonder  where  you  are?" 

"They'll  wonder/'  said  Paul,  "and  they 
won't  be  best  pleased,  but  they  won't  send  out 
search-parties  till  evening  because  I've  done 
it  before." 

"Oh,  you're  given  to  wandering,  are  you? 
Don't  you  think  I'd  better  take  you  home  in 
the  motor?" 

"And  Thor?"  Paul  asked  anxiously.  "He 
mustn't  run  with  it.  Motors  go  too  fast  for 
dogs.    Father  says  so." 

"And  Thor,"  said  the  man.  "He  can  come 
inside  with  us." 

They  had  coffee,  which  pleased  Paul  greatly, 
and  he  confided  to  his  friend  that  he  had 
never  had  a  cup  all  to  himself  before,  only  the 
sugar  at  the  bottom  of  other  people's  cups  if 
he  could  get  at  them  before  they  were  cleared 
away. 

Motors  were  something  of  a  novelty  then, 
284 


Paul  and  the  Playwright 

and  Paul  thought  it  very  exciting  to  go  in  one. 
Thor  was  suspicious  and  refused  to  go  in  be- 
fore his  master,  but  followed  him  obediently 
when  Paul  got  in  first. 

"We  can't  have  a  motor,"  he  remarked,  as 
they  shd  down  the  drive,  "it  would  break 
Button's  heart,  father  says,  and  we're  very 
fond  of  horses,  though  I  like  the  dogs  best 
myself.  Did  your  coachman  mind  very 
much?" 

"My  coachman  got  so  frail  and  ill  he  could- 
n't drive  any  more,  and  it  would  have  broken 
his  heart  to  have  any  one  else  drive  his  horses, 
so  I  had  to  get  a  motor,  because  I'm  such  a 
long  way  from  the  station.  He  didn't  mind 
that  so  much." 

"It's  the  same  reason  really,"  said  Paul. 
"Did  he  get  better?" 

"He'll  never  be  any  better,  but  I  think  he's 
pretty  comfortable." 

Paul  was  certain  he  was. 

After  all  it  wasn't  such  a  very  long  way  by 
the  road,  though  it  was  in  another  county. 
The  motor  stopped  at  the  drive  gate,  Paul  and 
Thor  descended,  for,  despite  entreaties,  this 
hospitable  man  refused  to  come  up  to  the  house. 
285 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"You'll  let  me  know  when  you've  found  the 
printing  thing  that  spells  right,  won't  you?" 
Paul  called  out  at  parting. 

"I  most  certainly  will,"  the  man  called 
back,  "and  if  you  find  it  first  I  expect  you  to 
tell  me." 

•  •  •  •  • 

Paul's  family  did  not  share  the  reticence  of 
his  late  host.  He  was  catechised  at  long 
length,  and  would  assuredly  have  been  pim- 
ished  but  for  father's  intervention.  Father, 
who  refused  to  be  anxious  or  excited  when  his 
younger  son  played  the  prodigal,  seemed  rather 
to  sjonpathise  with  his  wandering  propensi- 
ties. "As  if  anything  could  happen  to  the 
boy,  with  that  great  dog  always  at  his  heels," 
he  said  scornfully,  when,  before  lunch,  we  had 
all  suggested  the  manifold  disasters  that  might 
have  befallen  Paul.  "It's  no  use  expecting  a 
boy  to  stay  in  the  grounds  for  ever.  Let  him 
go  out  and  tramp  the  country  occasionally, 
and  when  he  comes  back  take  no  notice,  and 
he'll  soon  tire  of  it.  Paul  Hkes  to  make  a 
sensation.  It  would  be  quite  flat  and  tame  if 
we  were  none  of  us  the  least  concerned  as  to 
where  he  has  been.  You  may  be  sure  he'll 
2SG 


Paul  and  the  Playwright 

fall  on  his  feet  whatever  way  he  goes — ^he's 
that  sort." 

All  very  well  for  father,  who  was  the  least 
inquisitive  man  on  earth,  but  Fiammetta  and 
I  were  bursting  with  curiosity,  and  I  noticed 
mother  hovered  near  during  Paul's  recital  of 
his  adventures. 

Just  at  bedtime  he  discovered  that  he  had 
left  his  "chuncheon"  behind.  He  remembered 
that  it  "stuck  into  him  rather"  as  he  sat  talk- 
ing to  the  man  who  wrote  plays  just  before 
lunch,  and  he  had  slipped  it  out  of  the  string 
round  his  waist  and  laid  it  at  the  back  of  his 
chair. 

"You'll  never  see  it  again,"  said  Fiammetta. 
"Somebody's  sure  to  throw  it  away." 

Paul  looked  sad.  Then  his  face  brightened 
— "I  don't  think  so,"  he  said.  "Nothing's 
ever  throwed  away  out  of  that  room." 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  mother. 

"He  hasn't  got  a  missus,"  Paul  said,  "any- 
body could  see  that.  He  does  exactly  what  he 
likes.  No  one  tidies  his  things.  He  hasn't 
got  one." 

"Perhaps  he'll  throw  it  away  himself," 
Fiammetta  persisted. 

287 


^ 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  cried  Paul,  on  the 
verge  of  tears.  "He  wouldn't  do  such  a  thing. 
He's  not  that  kind  of  person." 

"You'll  never  see  that  old  truncheon 
again,"  Fiammetta  remarked  with  a  superior 
finality  that  drove  Paul  to  make  reprisals. 

He  stoutly  maintained  his  belief  in  his 
friend,  but  he  was  plainly  anxious,  for  he 
knew  that  he  could  never  find  his  w^ay  again 
to  that  other  county.  He  had  wandered 
there,  haphazard,  across  fields,  and  never  no- 
ticed the  roads  on  the  return  journey — ^he 
was  so  busy  talking  to  his  friend.  He  added 
a  petition  to  his  prayers  that  the  beloved 
"chuncheon"  might  be  restored  to  him,  and 
"so,"  as  Mr.  Pepys  would  say,  "to  bed." 

Next  morning  his  faith  was  justified.  It 
arrived  by  post,  in  a  neat  parcel  sealed  at 
each  end,  and  inside,  printed  by  the  little 
piano,  "I  hope  you  were  not  worried  about 
it.    I  found  the  weapon  when  I  got  back." 

"There,"  said  Paul,  "didn't  I  say  so?  I 
knew    he    wasn't    a    throwing-away    sort    of 


man." 


288 


XIX 

A  MISFIT 

RONNIE  left  the  beach  and  climbed  the 
steep  slope  till  he  reached  the  summit, 
where  rough  grass  and  stones  edged  golden 
cornfields  that  stretched  inland  as  far  as  the 
eye  could  see. 

No  one  noticed  that  he  had  gone.  Miss 
Biddle,  the  holiday  governess,  sat  reading  in 
the  shade  of  the  cliff,  absorbed  in  "The  Blue 
Necklace."  His  cousins,  Cedric  and  Githa, 
both  older  than  he,  were  building  an  elaborate 
sand-castle,  according  to  a  diagram  spread 
on  the  sand,  and  held  in  place  by  stones  laid 
on  the  four  corners. 

When  he  reached  the  top  he  turned  his  back 
upon  the  beach,  and  sat  down  on  a  big  stone, 
elbows  on  knees,  and  hands  clasped  under  the 
sharp  httle  chin  that  rested  on  them.  The 
yellow  cornfields  became  blurred  and  dim  as 
he  gazed,  for  Ronnie  was  lonely  and  dread- 
fully homesick.  Everybody  he  cared  for 
289 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

seemed  so  far  away — even  Uncle  Gerald,  the 
kind  and  understanding,  was  shooting  in  Scot- 
land, and  seemed  as  remote  as  father  and 
mother  in  India. 

The  big  tears  brimmed  over  and  fell.  Then 
everything  grew  clear  again.  It  was  very 
pretty,  the  com  billowing  in  golden  waves 
mider  the  soft  wind;  but  its  beauty  did  not 
cheer  him.  Rather  did  he  remember  dismally 
that  last  time  he  sat  beside  it  insects,  that  he 
decided  must  be  singularly  silent  and  stealthy 
mosquitoes,  came  out  and  bit  him  so  that  he 
was  all  over  itching  lumps  afterwards.  All 
the  same,  he  didn't  move:  he  was  too  miser- 
able. Moreover  he  had  that  morning  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  something  must  be 
done.  He  had  no  idea  what.  But  ideas  come 
with  reflection.  So,  after  a  sniff  or  two,  he 
unclasped  his  hands,  polished  his  nose  with 
his  sleeve,  and  then  sat  very  still,  going  over 
in  his  mind  all  the  time  since  he  came  Home, 
to  try  to  discover  why  there  should  be  what 
he  called  "a  kind-of-a-ness"  over  everything. 

He  was  quite  fair.  He  recognised  that  it 
was  partly  his  own  fault  for  getting  fever  in 
the  cold  weather.  Then,  too,  fate  had  con- 
290 


A  Misfit 

spired  against  him,  for  the  Friths  were  coming 
Home  in  the  middle  of  May.  If  they  hadn't 
been  sailing  then,  there  would  have  been  no- 
body to  send  him  with.  He  had  been  coming 
for  good  next  hot  weather,  when  he  would 
be  seven,  with  mother  and  baby-brother. 
They  were  coming  then  for  certain.  But  a 
whole  year,  to  a  child,  seems  an  interminable, 
abysmal  space,  that  no  hopes  can  bridge. 

He  had  known  all  along  that  he  was  to  go 
to  Aunt  Hildegarde  till  mother  came  back — 
Aunt  Hildegarde,  who  Hved  in  a  place  called 
Golder's  Green.  He  knew  that  there  was  an 
Uncle  Edward  and  two  cousins,  in  fact,  he 
faintly  remembered  having  seen  them  last 
time  he  came  Home;  but  as  he  was  only  three 
then  his  impressions  were  somewhat  hazy. 

Perhaps  if  he  had  come  straight  to  these 
relatives  he  might  have  shaken  down  better, 
but  the  Fates  had  settled  otherwise.  Just 
as  the  P.  &  0.  reached  Marseilles,  Cedric  and 
Githa  got  measles,  and  Aunt  Hildegarde,  who 
was  most  conscientious,  decided  that  she 
couldn't  possibly  allow  Ronnie  to  run  the  risk 
of  infection.  She  therefore  appealed  to  Uncle 
Gerald  to  take  him  till  all  danger  was  past. 
291 


y 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

This,  had  Ronnie  known  it,  was  asking  a 
good  deal;  for  Uncle  Gerald,  who  was  his 
father's  uncle,  was  an  elderly  bachelor  of  fairly- 
fixed  habits.  Nevertheless,  as  he  was  fond 
of  Ronnie's  parents,  and  there  really  seemed 
to  be  nobody  else,  he  agreed  to  take  the  little 
boy  till  such  time  as  the  nursery  at  Golder's 
Green  was  ready  to  receive  him.  He  even 
came  up  himself  to  Charing  Cross  to  meet 
the  P.  &  0.  express,  and  took  over  Ronnie 
from  kind  Mrs.  Frith,  who,  with  three  chil- 
dren of  her  own  to  look  after,  had  yet  found 
room  in  her  heart  to  love  Ronnie  quite  a 
lot. 

As  he  sat  there  in  the  sunshine  gazing  at 
the  golden  waves,  he  thought  of  the  blue 
green  waves  that  washed  around  the  big 
home-bound  steamer,  and  in  remembering 
the  voyage,  unconsciously  compared  his  aunt 
and  Mrs.  Frith,  wondering  why  it  was  Aunt 
Hildegarde  made  you  "feel  so  different."  Mrs. 
Frith  was  often  hasty — four  children  and  an 
ayah  in  the  Red  Sea  are  enough  to  put  an  edge 
on  the  smoothest  temper — but  she  was  always 
fair  even  in  her  hastiness.  And  she  judged 
the  exasperating  conduct  of  Ronnie  with  pre- 
292 


A  Misfit 

cisely  the  same  amount  of  irritation  as  she 
brought  to  bear  on  that  of  her  own  offspring. 
Aunt  Hildegarde  kept  a  quite  separate  com- 
partment in  her  mind  for  the  consideration  of 
Ronnie.  He  was  conscious  of  this  and  resented 
it.  Then  memory  swung  back  to  Uncle  Gerald 
— ^Uncle  Gerald  coming  down  the  drive  in  a 
cloud  of  dogs. 

As  he  thought  of  the  dogs  the  big  tears 
welled  up  again  and  rolled  down  his  cheeks. 
Everything  about  that  first  day  in  England 
seemed  to  stand  out  before  him  in  a  series  of 
pictures  hke  those  he  had  once  seen  at  a 
theatre  in  India.  There  was  all  the  bustle 
and  rushing  at  Charing  Cross.  Uncle  Gerald, 
tall,  with  closely-trimmed  grey  beard,  and 
kind  keen  eyes  under  his  broad  forehead — 
such  a  lot  of  forehead  Uncle  Gerald  had. 
Ronnie  even  remembered  hearing  Mrs.  Frith 
say,  "Oh,  he's  a  dear  little  soul,  very  talka- 
tive and  officious,  but  quite  affectionate; 
cheerful  too — which  is  a  great  matter  with 
children,  don't  you  think?"  Then  there  was 
a  scramble  for  luggage.  Ronnie's  little  cabin 
trunk  was  disentangled.  He  was  embraced 
by  all  the  Frith  family  and  ayah,  and,  hand 
293 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

in  hand  with  this  tall,  unknown  Uncle  Gerald, 
hurried  down  the  big  station  to  a  taxi-cab. 
They  drove  across  London  to  another  station 
— Paddington  it  was  called,  where  they  had 
tea — and  into  the  train  again  for  another 
journey.  Then,  in  the  slowly  fading  spring 
light,  a  long  drive  in  a  motor  through  green 
country  lanes  till  they  turned  into  some  big 
gates  and  drove  up  to  a  house  whence  issued 
a  most  tremendous  barking  and  yapping.  The 
door  was  opened  and  four  dogs  rushed  out — 
long-bodied,  rough-haired  West  Highland  ter- 
riers, their  coloiu"  ranging  from  almost  black 
to  lightish  grey — ^who  jumped  all  over  Uncle 
Gerald  with  noisy  manifestations  of  delight, 
sniffed  curiously  at  Ronnie,  and  as  he  was  not 
in  the  least  afraid  of  them,  took  him  into 
favour  at  once  and  jumped  on  him — Collum 
and  Puddock  and  Mona  their  mother,  and 
frisky,  cheeky  little  Rannoch,  who  was  no 
relation  to  any  of  them,  and  took  the  greatest 
liberties  with  all  three. 

All  Uncle  Gerald's  servants  had  been  with 
him  for  untold  ages,  and  all  were  elderly  ex- 
cepting the  housemaid,  who  had  only  been 
there  a  short  ten  years,  and  occasionally  was 
294 


A  Misfit 

still  spoken  of  as  "that  new  girl."  Her  name 
was  Grace,  and  she  came  from  somewhere 
near  Perth,  and  it  was  to  her  care  that  Ronnie 
was  entrusted  for  such  matters  as  bathing 
and  dressing  and  hair-brushing. 

Before  he  slept  that  night  he  knew  all  about 
Grace,  and  decided  that  she  was  a  person  to 
be  cultivated.  But  he  felt  that  about  all  of 
them.  His  coming  into  that  silent  (save  for 
the  dogs),  regular  house  was  something  of  an 
adventure.  The  household  rose  to  it,  and  the 
loquacious,  inquisitive,  lively  little  boy  never 
even  knocked  at  their  hearts,  but  walked 
straight  in  and  took  possession.  He  decided 
that  England  was  a  nice  place:  a  bit  cold, 
perhaps,  when  one  got  up  in  the  morning,  but 
very  pretty  and  full  of  interesting  things  to 
do.  He  gardened  with  the  three  gardeners, 
wasting  hours  of  their  time,  and  starting  end- 
less horticultural  experiments  which  were 
wholly  without  result.  He  cleaned  the  motor 
with  Robinson  and  got  so  wet  that  Grace, 
looking  out  of  the  pantry  window,  caught  him 
and  changed  all  his  clothes,  which  he  thought 
very  unnecessary.  It  was  her  one  fault — she 
was  always  so  suspicious  of  damp. 
295 


J^ 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

He  penetrated  to  the  kitchen,  and  discussed 
its  small  resemblance  to  an  Indian  kitchen 
with  Mrs.  Robinson,  who  was  Robinson's  wife. 
He  was  very  fond  of  telling  them  about  In- 
dia, and  thoroughly  enjoyed  their  respectful 
astonishment  at  some  of  his  tallest  stories,  and 
when  he  wasn't  telling  things  himself  he  asked 
questions.  All  day  long  he  asked  questions,  so 
that,  when  he  was  safe  in  bed  and  asleep, 
Uncle  Gerald  would  take  down  large  heavy 
tomes  from  the  bookcases  and  prime  himself 
with  useful  knowledge  for  the  morrow. 

Into  every  corner  of  that  big  old  Cotswold 
house  did  Ronnie  poke  his  inquisitive  curly 
head,  and  the  more  he  saw  of  it  the  better  he 
liked  it.  It  was  such  a  kind,  welcoming  sort 
of  house.  Of  course,  sometimes  he  wanted 
his  mother  pretty  badly,  and  then  he  sought 
Uncle  Gerald,  who  seemed  to  know  exactly 
what  was  wrong,  and  no  matter  what  he  was 
doing  would  find  time  for  a  homesick  little 
boy;  and  by  the  charms  of  his  conversation, 
and  sometimes  without  any  conversation  at 
all,  would  so  steep  Ronnie  in  an  atmosphere 
of  warm  friendship  that  the  curious  ache  would 
depart,  leaving  no  remembrance  of  it. 
296 


A  Misfit 

And  now,  as  he  sat  looking  into  the  forest 
of  com,  there  came  to  his  mind  a  piece  of 
poetry  that  he  had  learned  to  please  Uncle 
Gerald.  It  was  a  very  great  adventure  that 
led  to  the  learning  of  these  verses,  and  Ronnie 
thrilled  with  the  remembrance.  One  night 
early  in  that  Jime,  one  never-to-be-forgotten 
night,  Uncle  Gerald  came  into  his  room  and 
woke  him  up,  made  Grace  put  on  his  clothes, 
and  then  wrapped  him  up  in  a  blanket  and 
carried  him  out  to  the  back  of  the  house  where 
there  was  a  Httle  copse. 

The  dogs  were  not  allowed  to  come. 

It  was  a  briUiant  moonhght  night — almost 
like  a  night  in  India,  except  that  it  was 
nothing  like  so  warm.  The  copse  looked  very 
black  against  the  sky,  but  they  didn't  go  into 
it;  they  stayed  outside  just  beside  the  wire 
fence,  and  some  way  off  he  could  see  the  ser- 
vants standing  in  a  group. 

"I  felt  I  must  wake  you,"  Uncle  Gerald 
whispered,  just  as  though  he  were  at  a  con- 
cert and  feared  to  disturb  the  artists;  "it's 
the  first  of  the  nightingales — ^Hsten !" 

Ronnie  held  his  breath  and  listened  with 
aU  his  might;  but  at  first  all  he  could  hear 
297 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

was  a  soft,  whispering  sort  of  note  that 
seemed  to  say  Tio,  Ti6,  Ti6,  Tio,  Tio,  Ti6, 
Ti6,  Ti6,  Tik ! 

He  pressed  his  cheek  against  Uncle  Gerald's 
and  yawned.  The  soft  note  changed  to  a  full- 
throated  song,  full  of  trills  and  cascades  and 
roulades  and  occasional  odd  chuckles.  He 
supposed  it  was  very  wonderful  (though  he 
infinitely  preferred  Robinson's  whistling  of 
"The  Sailor's  Star"),  but  he  was  not  so  much 
interested  in  the  nightingales  as  in  the  night. 
It  was  so  big  and  mysterious  and  scented  and 
silvery  out  in  that  moonshine,  so  warm  and 
safe  in  Uncle  Gerald's  arms.  It  was  such  fun 
to  be  out  so  late,  and  to  hear  nightingales  like 
a  grown-up  person. 

Ronnie's  little  soul  was  flooded  with  an  im- 
mense content. 

They  listened  for  what  seemed  to  him  a 
very  long  time,  and  he  was  nearly  falling  asleep 
again  when  Uncle  Gerald  said  suddenly,  still 
in  that  hushed,  concerty  sort  of  voice,  "There ! 
isn't  that  fine?  But  I  must  take  you  home  to 
bed."  And  as  they  went  back  Uncle  Gerald 
repeated  some  poetry  to  himself.  Ronnie 
didn't  understand  it  in  the  least,  but  next  day 
298 


A  Misfit 

asked  his  uncle  to  "tell  again  that  bit  about 
fairy  lands  for  lawns." 

Uncle  Gerald  laughed  and  said  it  wasn't 
quite  that,  but  he  "told  it  again,"  and  then 
suggested  that  it  would  be  nice  if  Ronnie,  hav- 
ing heard  one,  learned  what  a  poet  called  Keats 
had  said  about  a  nightingale:  and  Ronnie, 
who  had  a  quick  ear  and  retentive  memory, 
learned  two  long  verses — the  end  of  the  poem, 
Uncle  Gerald  said,  and  used  to  repeat  them  to 
his  uncle  to  their  mutual  pride  and  satisfac- 
tion. 

And  now  as  he  sat  beside  this  cornfield 
there  sounded  in  his  head  the  lines 

"Perhaps  the  self -same  song  that  found  a  path 
Through  the  sad  heart  of  Ruth,  when,  sick  for  home, 
She  stood  m  tears  among  the  alien  com; 

Forlorn  1  the  very  word  is  like  a  bell.  .  .  ." 

That  was  just  what  Ronnie  was.  He 
spared  no  pity  for  Ruth,  though  he  knew  all 
about  her — for  Uncle  Gerald  had  told  him. 
At  all  events  she  had  not  had  to  go  and  live 
with  an  aunt  at  Golder's  Green,  and  with 
odious,  priggish,  plump  cousins,  who  made 
299 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

fun  of  the  way  he  talked,  and  took  no  interest 
whatever  in  India. 

He  detested  Golder's  Green.  The  house 
seemed  so  small  and  pokey,  and  the  garden 
so  prim,  after  the  great  rooms  in  India  and 
Uncle  Gerald's  kindly,  wandering  old  house 
and  big  friendly  garden.  The  trim  roads  and 
jumbled,  pretty  little  houses  weighed  upon 
him  with  a  deadly  weight  of  depression,  though 
he  couldn't  have  told  why.  There  were  no 
dogs  either,  only  a  large  aloof  cat  called  "Ra," 
that  Aunt  Hildegarde  used  to  enthrone  on  a 
cushion,  placed  on  a  kind  of  pillar,  while  she 
and  visiting  ladies,  attired  in  straight,  sad- 
coloured  garments,  sandals,  and  digitated 
socks,  sat  round  about  upon  the  floor  and  en- 
thused upon  his  wondrous  beauty  and  wisdom. 
Ronnie  would  have  liked  Ra,  if  he  might  have 
stroked  and  cuddled  him,  but  the  children 
were  not  allowed  to  touch  him,  as  he  was  sup- 
posed to  be  fierce  and  resentful  of  such  atten- 
tions. 

Ronnie  was  always  in  trouble,  always  doing 

or,  even  more  often,  sapng  what  he  ought 

not.     Seeing  ladies  who  wore  veils  on  their 

heads,  and  had  bare  feet  and  sandals,  he  asked 

300 


A  Misfit 

if  they  were  ayahs;  on  being  told  hastily  "of 
course  not/'  he  suggested  that  they  were  Parsi 
ladies,  and  was  severely  snubbed  in  conse- 
quence. 

He  was  slow  and  clumsy  over  the  little 
handicrafts  his  cousins  practised  with  such 
skill  and  industry,  and  when  Cedric  and  Githa 
irritated  him  beyond  bearing  he  tried  to  beat 
them,  which  caused  a  frightful  commotion 
and  filled  the  whole  household  with  consterna- 
tion. 

His  aunt  and  uncle  were  not  like  Uncle 
Gerald  in  the  matter  of  answering  questions. 
To  be  sure,  they  told  him  all  sorts  of  things 
he  didn't  particularly  want  to  know,  or  knew 
already;  but  they  refused  to  answer  ques- 
tions. They  held  his  cousins  up  to  him  as 
models,  a  fatal  thing  to  do,  and  they  made 
no  allowance  for  a  lonely  little  boy  suddenly 
transported  to  an  entirely  new  environment. 
They  were  cold,  too,  sniffy  and  uninterested 
in  all  he  had  to  say  about  Uncle  Gerald,  and 
this  he  resented  extremely.  He  could  not 
know  that  they  were  a  centre  of  fight  and  lead- 
ing in  the  most  superior  set  in  Golder's  Green, 
and  that  there  existed  between  them  and 
301 


^- 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Uncle  Gerald  the  deep-seated,  never  expressed, 
hearty  dislike  of  the  poseur  for  the  simple  and 
sincere. 

Had  he  but  known  it,  Uncle  Gerald  took 
care  that  he  never  came  across  them  more 
often  than  the  very  remote  connection  war- 
ranted. But  Aunt  Hildegarde  was  mother's 
only  sister,  and  she  seemed  the  natural  guar- 
dian for  Ronnie,  and  Uncle  Gerald  never  in- 
terfered in  other  people's  concerns.  But  he 
had  his  doubts,  and  his  heart  was  sore  for  the 
frank,  talkative  little  boy  when  he  left  him. 

Nobody  was  actively  unkind.  He  had 
plenty  to  eat,  a  nice  room  which  he  shared 
with  Cedric,  who  was  destined  for  a  school 
all  fads  and  flannel  shirts,  and  already  could 
make  his  own  bed  and  empty  his  washing- 
basin — matters  wherein  Ronnie  was  hope- 
lessly ignorant,  and  showed  no  aptitude  when 
Cedric  tried  to  teach  him.  That  was  the  mis- 
chief: Cedric  and  Githa  were  always  teaching, 
and  let  him  know  it;  and  it  roused  every  evil 
disposition  in  Ronnie;  so  that  he  was  rapidly 
becoming  a  sort  of  Ishmael  both  in  feeling 
and  in  fact. 

Then  Miss  Biddle  brought  them  to  the  sea- 
302 


A  Misfit 

side,  while  aunt  and  uncle  went  for  a  walking 
tour  in  Wales. 

The  soft  wind  blew  a  cloud  over  the  sun. 
Ronnie  shivered  and  arose  from  his  stone. 
Cedric  and  Githa  were  still  absorbed  in  their 
plan.  Miss  Biddle  was  breathlessly  following 
the  fortunes  of  "The  Hon.  Jane."  Ronnie, 
wilfully  disobedient,  decided  to  go  for  a  walk 
by  himself  along  the  edge  of  the  cornfield.  No 
ideas  had  come  to  him  except  the  omnipresent 
determination  to  go  back  to  Uncle  Gerald  till 
mother  should  come  Home. 

But  how  ? 

He  was  sensible  and  sophisticated  enough 
to  know  he  couldn't  walk  there,  and  that  he 
hadn't  enough  money  to  go  by  train.  He  had, 
to  be  precise,  exactly  one  penny  in  the  world; 
the  weekly  penny  given  to  each  of  them  every 
Monday  by  Miss  Biddle  on  behalf  of  Uncle 
Edward.  He  couldn't  write,  and  he  knew 
that  it  would  both  distress  and  annoy  his  aunt 
if  she  heard  that  he  was  unhappy  in  her  house. 
She  would  never  see  he  was  unhappy;  he  was 
sure  of  that.  She  would  only  see  that  he  was 
"unpleasant." 

He  stumped  along,  picking  his  way  through 
303 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

the  stones  and  thistles,  big  with  an  entirely 
vague  piupose,  when  suddenly  he  came  upon 
a  man  sitting,  as  he  himself  had  been  sitting 
a  few  minutes  ago,  on  a  big  stone;  only  this 
man  had  a  blotting-pad  upon  his  knees  and 
was  writing  very  fast.  He  wore  a  panama 
hat  tilted  almost  over  his  nose  to  shelter  his 
eyes,  big  round  spectacles  with  tortoise-shell 
rims,  and  as  he  finished  a  sheet  he  laid  it  on 
a  pile  of  others  that,  like  Cedric's  plan,  were 
kept  from  blowing  away  by  the  stones  laid 
upon  them.  Ronnie  watched  him  breath- 
lessly. How  fast  he  wrote!  Uncle  Gerald 
could  write  like  that,  and  daddie  .  .  .  and 
thinking  of  daddie  there  came  into  his  mind 
the  picture  of  a  busy  Eastern  street,  and  the 
likhne-wdld  (letter-writer)  sitting  on  the  curb- 
stone in  the  sunshine  ready  to  write  letters 
for  those  who  could  not  write  themselves  .  .  . 
if  they  could  pay  him. 

Was  this  man  a  likhnk-wdld? 

He  looked  like  a  sahib,  but  then  so  did 
Robinson,  and  he  was  Uncle  Gerald's  gharri- 
wallah. 

Ronnie  drew  a  little  nearer. 

If  this  man  was  a  likhne-wdld,  would  he — 
oh,  would  he — write  a  letter  for  one  anna? 
304 


A  Misfit 

Ronnie  felt  it  was  a  very  small  sum  to  offer, 
but  the  man  looked  kind,  and  he  could  write 
so  fast.    It  wouldn't  take  him  long. 

Perhaps  if  he  was  approached  very  po- 
litely. .  .  .  Ronnie  crept  a  bit  nearer  and 
the  man  looked  up  and  saw  him. 

The  little  boy  joined  his  hands,  and  touch- 
ing his  forehead  bowed  his  body,  as  he  had 
seen  men  in  India  bow  when  they  came  be- 
fore his  father  to  ask  for  something. 

"Sahib,"  he  said  earnestly,  "could  you 
write  a  letter  for  one  anna?" 

"Hullo,  shrimp!"  said  the  man.  "Have 
you  sprung  right  out  of  the  Shiny  into  here?" 

"I  know  it's  very  Httle  monies,"  Ronnie 
continued  apologetically,  "very  little  monies, 
but  I  do  want  that  letter  wrote,  so  badly.  I've 
truly  got  one  anna;  here  it  is." 

The  man  held  out  his  hand,  and  Ronnie 
laid  the  penny  on  his  palm. 

The  man  closed  his  hand  upon  it. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "what  shall  I  write?" 

He  took  a  fresh  sheet  of  paper  and  looked 
at  Ronnie,  and  the  Httle  boy  saw  that  the  eyes 
behind  the  round  glasses  were  bright  and  kind. 

"Dear  Uncle  Gerald,"  Ronnie  began. 
"Please  come.  I  do  not  Hke  it  here.  I  want 
305 


>>■ 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

to  come  back  to  you.    It  is  forlorn  here,  not 
fairylands " 

"Eh,  what's  that?"  asked  the  man.  "You 
dictate  very  fast.    'Not  fairylands'?    Yes?" 

"I  am  mizzable,"  Ronnie  continued. 
"Please  come  quickly  and  take  me  away. 
Cejic  and  Githa  do  not  like  me.  They  are  so 
pompshus " 

"What's  that?"  asked  the  man. 

"I  do  not  like  them,"  Ronnie  went  on.  "I 
like  the  dogs  much  better;  kiss  them  all  on 
their  foreheads  for  me,  not  their  noses,  they 
are  too  wet,  especially  Rannoch.  Please  come 
quick.  I  am  so  mizzable.  Your  loving  Ron- 
nie. .  .  .    That's  all,  thank  you." 

"Mizzable,  eh?"  the  man  repeated.  "Is 
it  indiscreet  to  ask  why?" 

"I  don't  know  exactly  myself,"  said  Ron- 
nie.   "It  just  is." 

"Ah,"  said  the  man.  "I  know  that;  that's 
the  very  worst  kind.  Long  since  you  came 
Home?" 

"Oh,  very  long,"  Ronnie  answered  sadly. 
"Ages  and  ages." 

"Hm-m-m!"  said  the  man.  "With  rela- 
tions?" 

306 


A  Misfit 

"Yes,  but  Uncle  Gerald's  a  relation  too, 
you  know,  only  he's  a  nice  one — oh,  a  'dor- 
able  relation." 

"How  is  it  you're  here  and  not  with  him, 
then?"  asked  the  man. 

"It  was  arranged,"  Ronnie  said  solemnly, 
"/didn't  do  it." 

"I  see,"  said  the  man.  "  'It  was  an  order.' 
And  what  will  the  parents  out  in  the  Shiny 
say?"   ^ 

Ronnie  looked  grave.  "I  b'lieve  they'd 
like  it,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  thought. 
"They  'dore  Uncle  Gerald  too." 

"Hm-m-m!  Seems  a  popular  person,"  said 
the  man.    "What's  his  name?" 

"Same  as  daddie's  and  mine." 

"Yes,  and  yours?" 

"Ronald  Forsyth  Hardy." 

"Then  he's  Gerald  Hardy,  I  suppose?  And 
where  is  he  at  present?" 

"Scotland,"  said  Ronnie  promptly. 

"But  that's  a  bit  vague.  What  part  of 
Scotland?" 

"Oh,  they're  sure  to  know  him  there;  he 
goes  every  year;  he  told  me  so." 

"Were  you  there  with  him?" 
307 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

"No,  I  was  in  his  own  bungalow.  He  went 
to  Scotland  after  I  left." 

"Can  you  remember  the  name  of  his  bun- 
galow?" 

"Yes:  Longhope." 

"Any  station?" 

"There  is  a  station,  but  it's  very  far  off, 
and  I  don't  remember  its  name.  Won't  my 
letter  get  to  him?"  the  little  boy  asked  anx- 
iously. 

The  man  looked  through  his  bright  spec- 
tacles right  into  Ronnie's  large  brown  eyes. 
He  noticed  that  the  child  was  very  thin,  and 
that  he  hunched  his  shoulders  and  drooped 
his  head. 

The  man  laid  his  writing-pad  upon  the 
ground  and  lifted  Ronnie  on  to  his  knee. 

"Old  chap,"  he  said,  "you've  got  the  blues, 
and  you're  a  bit  of  a  misfit.  That's  what's 
the  matter  with  you.  But  it  won't  last.  Be- 
lieve me,  it  won't  last.  I'll  do  my  best  to  find 
this  Uncle  Gerald  of  yours.  I'm  going  to  town 
this  afternoon,  and  I'll  look  him  up  in  Burke." 

"Oh,  he's  not  in  Burke,"  Ronnie  declared 
positively.  "He's  in  Scotland;  he's  wrote 
to  me  from  there." 

308 


A  Misfit 

"All  right,"  said  the  man.  "I'll  try  and 
get  the  letter  to  him  somehow.  But  you 
mustn't  expect  too  much.  It  may  not  be 
overeasy  for  Uncle  Gerald  to  do  anything, 
and  it  takes  a  deuce  of  a  time  for  letters  to 
get  to  Scotland." 

"Longer  than  to  Burke?" 

"Hark!"  said  the  man.  "Isn't  that  some 
one  calling?" 

"It's  for  me,"  exclaimed  Ronnie,  jumping 
off  his  knee.  "I  expect  it's  time  to  go  to 
dinner.  You  won't  forget?  You  do  promise? 
You  won't  tell  them?"  For  he  saw  Miss 
Biddle  and  Cedric  and  Githa  arrive  breath- 
lessly at  the  top  of  the  slope. 

"Honest  Injun,"  said  the  man.  "But  it'll 
take  a  good  week.  Then  you'll  hear  some- 
thing, if  Uncle  Gerald's  the  man  I  take  him 
for." 

They  shook  hands.  Miss  Biddle  and  his 
cousins  were  quite  close,  and  he  turned  to  meet 
them.  Their  questions  and  reproaches  passed 
over  his  head  lightly.  He  didn't  care.  He 
had  done  something  at  last,  and  he  believed 
in  the  likhne-wdld. 

"How  long  is  a  week?"  he  asked,  when 
309 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

the  enormity  of  his  conduct  had  been  thor- 
oughly threshed  out. 

"Seven  days,  of  course.  You  are  an  ig- 
norant Uttle  boy,"  said  Githa. 

As  it  happened,  Uncle  Gerald  was  in  Burke, 
so  the  likhnk-wdld  found  his  home  address, 
and  Ronnie's  letter  reached  him  three  days 
later,  when  he  came  back  from  a  long  day  on 
the  moors.  There  was  another  letter  also, 
from  the  likhne-wdld,  and  in  it  he  used  the 
very  phrase  he  had  used  to  Ronnie.  "I  fear," 
he  said,  "the  little  chap  is  a  misfit,  and  it's  a 
painful  game  to  play  when  one  is  a  kiddy.  He 
looked  peaked  and  thin  and  timid,  and  he 
ought  to  be  such  a  jolly  Httle  chap." 

He  said  a  great  many  other  things,  did  the 
likhrw-wdld,  and  the  name  he  signed  at  the 
end  of  his  letter  was  one  well  known  to  Uncle 
Gerald  as  the  author  of  certain  books  he  knew 
and  cared  for. 


The  week  dragged  on.    It  rained  a  lot  and 
the  days  were  long  for  Ronnie  in  the  seaside 
lodgings.    He  kept  count  of  the  days,  though, 
310 


A  Misfit 

and  at  last  it  reached  the  sixth  day  from  the 
time  he  met  the  Ukhne-wdld,  and  no  answer 
had  come  to  his  letter.  Yet  he  never  doubted 
him.  He  was  convinced  that  somehow  or 
other  his  letter  would  reach  Uncle  Gerald. 

It  was  on  Monday  he  had  met  the  likhnk- 
wdld,  and  on  Saturday  evening  after  tea  it 
cleared  up  and  they  went  out  to  the  sands. 
They  were  to  return  to  Golder's  Green  next 
week,  and  Ronnie  dreaded  it  unspeakably, 
for  he  felt  that  if  nothing  happened  before 
he  did  that,  then  he  was  indeed  abandoned 
and  forlorn.  Cedric  and  Githa  would  not  let 
him  dig  with  them  because  his  methods  were 
too  erratic.  Miss  Biddle  had  finished  "The 
Blue  Necklace,"  and  started  on  "Love  is  a 
Snare,"  and  found  it  equally  enthralling. 

Ronnie  was  digging  by  himself,  a  lonely 
little  figure  apart  from  the  rest,  and  talking 
to  himself  as  he  worked.  He  had  built  a 
bungalow,  and  had  just  flattened  out  the  com- 
poimd  roimd  about  it,  and  was  beginning  on 
the  servants'  quarters,  when  he  looked  up  to 
see  a  sohtary  figure  coming  across  the  ribbed 
and  ghstening  sand.  The  tide  was  out,  and 
there  seemed  miles  of  beach  between  him  and 
311 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

the  sea.  They  had  had  their  tea  extra  early, 
and  the  beach  was  almost  deserted,  for  it  was 
just  five  o'clock.  Ronnie  watched  the  distant 
figure,  and  his  heart  seemed  to  jump  up  and 
turn  over,  for  there  was  something  dear  and 
familiar  about  it,  and  yet  ...  he  didn't  dare 
to  hope. 

Then  suddenly  his  long  sight  told  him  there 
was  no  mistake.  It  was,  it  was  the  Uncle 
Gerald  of  his  hopes  and  dreams!  He  started 
to  run,  and  the  figure  made  the  glad  assurance 
doubly  sure  by  taking  off  its  hat  and  waving 
it.  Then  Ronnie  saw  the  dear,  tall  forehead, 
that,  as  he  once  pointed  out  to  his  uncle,  "went 
right  over  to  the  back";  after  that  there  could 
be  no  mistake. 

"I  never  thought  you  would  come,"  he  said, 
safe  in  the  shelter  of  those  kind  arms,  "and 
if  you  did  I  always  thought  all  the  dogs  would 
be  boimd  to  come  too." 

The  likhne-wdld  was  quite  right  when  he 
said  it  would  not  be  "overeasy"  for  Uncle 
Gerald. 

It  wasn't. 

It  required  a  deal  of  diplomacy,  and  only 
Uncle  Gerald's  charm  and  tact  carried  the 
312 


A  Misfit 

matter  through  without  a  serious  breach  be- 
tween the  Golder's  Green  relations  and  Ron- 
nie's parents.  It  cost  a  small  fortune  in  cables, 
too. 

But  in  the  end  it  was  managed,  and  Ronnie 
went  back  to  Longhope,  where  he  fitted  so 
uncommonly  weU. 

"I  must  say,"  said  Uncle  Gerald,  "youVe 
a  nice  taste  in  amanuenses." 

"What's  that?"  asked  Ronnie. 

"Well,  I  believe  you  call  it  a  likhne-wdld,^' 
said  Uncle  Gerald.  "Both  are  long,  rather 
clumsy  names,  and  there's  not  much  to  choose 
between  them." 

"He  was  a  nice  likhne-wdld,^^  said  Ronnie; 
"and  very  cheap." 


313 


XX 

THE  CONTAGION  OF  HONOUR 

IT'S  a  far  cry  from  cantonments  in  a  town 
in  Northern  India  to  a  village  in  the  Cots- 
wolds,  and  events  had  moved  so  fast  in  the 
last  four  months  that  for  a  while  Robin  felt 
rather  breathless  and  bewildered. 

He  was  not  yet  six  years  old,  but  he  had 
been  through  the  Suez  Canal  six  times. 

The  first  times  he  couldn't  remember  at 
all,  the  second  two  passages  only  faintly,  but 
the  last  two  were  vivid  and  epoch-making. 

They  came  so  close  together,  too. 

Had  any  one  just  then  asked  Robin  to  de- 
fine war,  he  would  have  tried  to  explain  that 
it  meant  continual  departure  from  where  you 
happened  to  be,  separation  and  loss,  that 
through  it  all — like  the  refrain  of  a  marching 
tune — there  sounded  stanzas  of  joyous  ex- 
citement; but  these  passed  quickly,  leaving 
silence  and  desolation  for  those  left  behind. 

Of  one  thing  he  was  certain:  war  meant 
314 


The  Contagion  of  Honour 

movement.  No  grown-up  person  could  keep 
in  one  place  for  any  length  of  time  when  there 
was  war.  In  April,  when  the  hot  weather  set 
in,  he  and  munamy  and  ayah  and  Jean  went 
to  the  hills,  as  usual;  but  daddy  stayed  in 
cantonments.  Long  before  the  hot  weather 
was  over  they  all  went  back.  There  was  much 
bustle  and  activity,  and  the  Sikhs  all  looked 
very  cheerful  indeed. 

Then  came  more  moves. 

Daddy  went  first  this  time,  and  took  the 
regiment  with  him;  but  he  wasn't  going 
Home. 

Mummy  and  the  children  went  next,  leav- 
ing a  weeping  ayah  at  the  new  Alexandra 
Dock  in  Bombay. 

The  voyage  was  long  and  wearisome  in  a 
very  crowded  boat,  where  there  were  many 
other  children  and  anxious-looking  mummies, 
but  no  sahibs — no  sahibs  at  all. 

When  they  arrived  in  England,  they  all 
came  to  Hve  with  grandfather  and  Aunt 
Monica  at  the  Vicarage,  and,  though  this  was 
very  different  from  India,  and  not  nearly  so 
gay  and  cheerful,  it  was  quite  bearable  till 
mummy  went  too. 

315 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

That  was  a  wholly  unexpected  blow.  Sol- 
diers' children,  especially  the  children  of 
soldiers  serving  abroad,  early  realise  that  a 
mysterious  power  called  "the  Service"  may 
at  any  moment  snatch  daddy  away.  It  may 
be  that  he  has  to  go  where  they  cannot  follow, 
or  that  he  has  to  stay  and  they  have  to  go. 
In  any  case,  it  means  separation. 

But  mummies  are  different.  They  belong — 
most  of  all  when  children  are  quite  small. 

Yet  Robin's  mother  had  gone. 

As  he  pottered  up  and  down  the  rather  wet 
path  that  Saturday  afternoon,  he  was  remem- 
bering a  conversation  he  had  heard  in  the 
verandah  just  before  the  regiment  left  India. 
He  was  building  a  temple  on  the  floor  with 
his  bricks,  and  mummy  was  very  rapidly  turn- 
ing the  heel  of  a  sock  while  Major  Booth  talked 
to  her.  Major  Booth  was  their  doctor,  and 
a  very  good  doctor  too. 

"It's  frightful  waste,  you  know,"  Major 
Booth  said,  in  a  grumbling  voice,  "for  you 
to  go  and  rust  in  a  remote  village  doing  nurse- 
maid to  a  couple  of  kids." 

"You  see,  they  happen  to  be  my  kids," 
mummy  answered  quietly. 
316 


The  Contagion  of  Honour 

"That's  no  argument  just  now/'  he  retorted. 
"They  are  healthy,  jolly  kids;  they've  got  a 
competent  aunt — ^you  told  me  so  yourself. 
They'll  be  perfectly  well  cared  for  whether 
you  are  there  or  not — and  you're  wanted,  I 
tell  you." 

MiuTtmy  gave  a  little  gasp.  "Oh,  man!" 
she  cried,  "why  do  you  dangle  the  unattain- 
able before  my  eyes?  You  know  I'm  just 
dying  to  go  .  .  .  but  I've  taken  on  another  job 
.  .  .  and  there  are  plenty  without  me.  I  won't 
butt  in " 

"Will  you  go  if  you're  asked  for?" 

"If  I'm  asked  for!"  Mummy  repeated  the 
words  scornfully.    "Of  course  I'd  go." 

Robin  looked  up  from  his  temple. 

"Go  where?"  he  asked.  "Can  I  come, 
too?" 

"Don't  you  worry,  sonny  dear,"  mummy 
said,  and  her  voice  soimded  flat  and  tired. 
"I  don't  for  one  moment  suppose  they'll  want 
me.  I  only  wish  they  would.  'That's  all  shove 
be'ind  me — ^long  ago  and  far  away,'  "  she 
quoted,  while  Major  Booth  shook  his  head  in 
violent  dissent. 

They  talked  of  other  things  that  did  not 
317 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

particularly  interest  Robin  till  he  went  away, 
but  as  Major  Booth  ran  down  the  verandah 
steps  he  had  called  out:  "Mind,  it's  a  banda- 
bost !    You  come  if  you're  asked  for." 

Robin  remembered  that  very  distinctly. 

When  they  had  been  four  weeks  at  the 
Vicarage,  when  they  were  just  settling  down 
to  the  quiet  life  there,  the  summons  came. 

It  seems  that  Robin's  mummy,  before  there 
was  any  Robin  or  Jean  or  even  daddy,  had 
been  a  particularly  first-class  surgical  nurse, 
and  not  only  that,  but  an  Army  nurse.  She 
never  talked  about  it,  but  Major  Booth  had 
discovered  it  soon  after  she  came  to  India  with 
daddy.  They  were  out  in  camp,  and  there 
was  a  bad  accident  to  one  of  the  soldiers,  and 
mummy  just  took  charge  and  helped  Major 
Booth  as  only  a  skilful  nurse  can  help. 

After  that,  if  sudden  illness  or  accidents 
occurred  where  no  trained  nurses  were  handy, 
people  rather  got  into  the  way  of  sending  for 
mummy  to  lend  a  hand. 

And  now  they  had  sent  for  her  to  nurse 
wounded  soldiers  at  a  base  hospital. 

She  explained  this  to  Robin  the  night  be- 
fore she  left,  as  he  sat  on  her  knee  all  ready 
318 


The  Contagion  of  Honour 

for  bed  in  front  of  the  nursery  fire.  He  re- 
membered the  feel  of  the  nursery  fender,  the 
warm  wire  bars,  as  he  pressed  his  feet  against 
them. 

Mummy  did  not  deny  that  she  was  im- 
mensely proud  and  glad  to  go — ^it  was  such 
an  honour  to  be  allowed  to  do  anything — 
but  she  hated  leaving  Robin  and  Jean.  Still, 
in  war  we  must  all  give  up  something.  He 
had  to  give  up  his  daddy  and  his  mummy — 
"a  good  deal  for  a  little  boy,"  she  added. 

Would  he  be  good  and  try  to  please  Aunt 
Monica  and  the  new  nm-se,  and  encourage 
Jean  to  be  good,  and  not  fret,  and  try  to  help 
all  he  could  ? 

Just  then  Robin  felt  so  solemn  and  exalted 
that  it  seemed  he  could  give  up  anything  to 
help  the  poor  wounded  soldiers,  and  so  he 
said.  And  after  his  prayers,  mummy  tucked 
him  into  bed  and  kissed  him,  and  whispered 
the  things  mummies  do  whisper  at  such  times. 
Her  eyes  tasted  salt  when  he  kissed  them, 
dragging  her  head  down  with  his  two  arms 
that  he  might  do  it — mummy  was  so  tall — 
and  the  next  day  she  went  away. 

She  had  been  gone  five  whole  weeks,  and 
319 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

Christmas  was  not  far  off,  and  that  Friday 
afternoon  Robin  wanted  her  most  desperately, 
for  somehow  everything  had  gone  wrong. 

It  began  with  digging  trenches. 

Now  to  dig  a  trench  properly,  as  in  war, 
you  must  lie  on  your  tummy  and  throw  the 
earth  up  in  front  of  you;  if  you  stood  up,  the 
enemy  would  pot  you — that's  an  understood 
thing. 

But  they  didn't  seem  to  realise  this  at  the 
Vicarage.  For  when  Robin  essayed  to  do  it 
in  his  own  garden — a  nice  large  plot  at  the 
far  end  of  the  kitchen  garden  that  grand- 
father had  given  him  for  his  very  own — he 
naturally  got  what  nurse  called  "all  over 
mould,"  and  she  was  far  from  pleased,  the 
less  so  in  that  Jean,  coming  with  nurse  to 
find  him,  immediately  flung  herself  face 
downwards  in  the  adjacent  carrot-bed  in 
imitation  of  her  brother. 

Jean  was  pretty,  and  every  one  fell  in  love 
with  her  at  first  sight;  but  Robin  was  what 
nurse  called  a  "very  or'nary  child,"  and  visit- 
ing strangers  showed  no  inclination  to  make 
a  fuss  of  him. 

Grandfather  was  a  very  old  gentleman, 
320 


The  Contagion  of  Honour 

and  Aunt  Monica  was  always  busy  with  parish 
work.  Robin  had  heard  his  father  say  that 
she  was  "as  good  as  three  curates"  to  grand- 
father. Therefore  did  he  find  himself  wish- 
ing that  she  had  been  less  capable,  for,  he 
reasoned,  if  Aunt  Monica  was  equal  to  three 
curates  now,  and  a  visiting  curate  whom  Robin 
liked  exceedingly  was  still  necessary — ^had  she 
been  rather  less  efficient,  two  visiting  curates 
might  have  been  required.  Or,  better  still, 
the  present  one  might  have  been  permanent. 
And  this,  from  Robin's  point  of  view,  was 
most  desirable. 

The  visiting  curate  came  every  Sunday  to 
intone  the  service,  read  the  lessons,  help  in 
the  Sunday-school,  and  take  the  children's 
service  in  the  afternoon,  and  he  always 
lunched  at  the  Vicarage. 

He  was  tall,  with  a  cheerful  red  face  and 
broad  shoulders,  which  made  a  most  com- 
fortable seat  for  little  boys.  Moreover,  he 
was  a  most  accomplished  person.  He  could 
waggle  his  ears  without  moving  his  head,  and 
move  his  hair  up  and  down  without  disar- 
ranging a  muscle  of  his  face.  He  could  shut 
one  eye — "shut  flat,"  Robin  called  it,  "no 
321 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

wrinkles" — and  stare  at  you  with  the  other, 
and  he  could  wink  each  eye  in  succession  in 
a  fashion  that  conveyed  infinite  possibilities 
of  merriment.  And  all  these  things  he  con- 
trived to  do  at  the  solemn  Sunday  luncheon 
when  neither  grandfather  nor  Aunt  Monica 
happened  to  be  looking. 

Then  there  was  Pollard. 

Pollard  was  the  gardener.  He  was  not  a 
gifted  being  like  the  curate.  By  no  stretch 
of  imagination  could  he  be  regarded  as  en- 
tertaining. He  was  a  stocky,  silent  young 
man,  whose  conversation  consisted  mainly 
of  "Yes,  Mazter  Robin";  "Noa,  little  gentle- 
man"; or,  "I  don't  'old  with  it  myself,  young 
zur,"  when  Robin  solicited  his  opinions  about 
the  war  and  kindred  subjects. 

Yet  there  was  something  in  his  bearing  that 
subtly  conveyed  to  the  lonely  little  boy  the 
fact  that  in  Pollard  he  had  a  friend,  and  a 
rather  admiring  friend  at  that,  and  Robin 
followed  him  about  like  a  small  dog. 

Yes,  Pollard  was  a  comfort. 

He  spied  him  now  wheeling  a  barrow  loaded 
with    what    Pollard    himself    called    "dong," 
with  a  spade  resting  on  the  top  of  the  heap. 
322 


The  Contagion  of  Honour 

"Wait  for  me,  Pollard — wait  for  me!" 
called  the  clear  Httle  voice.  The  man  stopped, 
and  when  Robin  caught  him  up,  they  went 
together  to  the  flower-garden,  where  Pollard 
was  preparing  the  ground  for  a  hedge  of 
sweet  peas  next  year. 

Here  Robin  was  thrilled  to  perceive  that 
Pollard  started  to  dig  a  trench.  He  was  a 
capital  digger,  throwing  up  great  spadefuls 
of  soil,  and  the  trench  was  beautifully  even. 

"They'd  like  you  to  help  them  in  Bel- 
gium," Robin  exclaimed  admiringly,  "you're 
so  strong — only  you  couldn't  do  it  that  way." 

Pollard  rested  on  his  spade.  "Well,  there 
now,  Mazter  Robin,"  he  exclaimed,  "be  you 
agoin'  to  teach  Oi  to  dig  at  this  time  o'  day?" 

"Not  standing  up  like  that,"  Robin  con- 
tinued, as  though  he  had  not  heard — "not 
to  begin  with.  You'd  get  shot  directly.  Can 
you  do  it  as  well  lying  down?" 

"Lyin'  down!"  Pollard  repeated.  "Lyin' 
down!    'Ooever  'eard  o'  diggin'  lyin'  down?" 

"Soldiers  do,"  Robin  answered.  "They 
have  to.  I  can  a  little,  too,  only  the  soil  here 
sticks  to  one  so." 

"Do  you  mean  as  they  lays  flat  on  their 
323 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

backs  and  scrabbles  sideways  with  a  trowel?" 
asked  Pollard,  fairly  puzzled. 

"No,  no,"  exclaimed  Robin,  "front  ways, 
of  course.  I  could  show  you  in  a  minute  if 
nurse  wasn't  so  cross.  You  throw  it  up  in 
front  of  you  so's  to  hide  you,  and  when  the 
hill  in  front's  high  enough,  and  your  hole  is 
deep  enough,  then  you  can  stand  up,  stoop- 
ing, and  dig  your  way.  I've  got  one  in  my 
garden,  not  a  good  one,  'cos  nurse  stopped 
me,  but  you  should  see  soldiers  do  it!" 

And  just  then  nurse  came  to  look  for 
Robin,  and  took  him  indoors  because  it  was 
getting  dark. 

Pollard  continued  to  dig  thoughtfully. 
From  time  to  time  he  paused,  leant  upon 
his  spade  and  scratched  his  head.  By  the 
time  he  had  prepared  the  ground  for  the  sweet 
peas  it  was  just  about  dark,  but  before  he 
went  home  he  visited  Robin's  garden.  Here 
he  tried  digging  a  trench  in  military  fashion, 
and  exceedingly  hard  work  he  found  it. 

From  time  to  time  precious  letters  came 
to  Robin — from  daddy  in  the  trenches  (how 
he  longed  to  see  those  trenches!),  and  from 
324 


The  Contagion  of  Honour 

mother  in  her  hospital.  Aunt  Monica  was 
very  kind  about  those  letters;  she  read  them 
aloud  over  and  over  again,  till  Robin  knew 
them  by  heart  and  imparted  their  contents 
to  PoUard;  who  always  appeared  much  edified, 
though  he  was  a  man  of  few  words. 

On  the  end  of  a  bam  that  he  passed  every 
day  between  his  mother's  cottage  and  the 
Vicarage,  there  were  posters  which  declared 
in  flaming,  foot-long  letters  that  his  "King 
and  Country"  needed  him,  and  adjuring  him 
to  join  the  Army  now  for  the  war,  and  so  on. 

Hitherto,  Pollard  had  regarded  the  war 
entirely  from  the  outside.  "Soldierin'  bain't 
for  the  likes  of  me,"  he  said,  and  his  mother 
quite  agreed  with  him.  Some  was  "fond  of 
a  bit  of  soldiering"  even  in  peace;  and  it  was 
quite  natural  and  suitable  that  such  should 
join  the  "Tarriers."  For  them,  of  course, 
the  call  to  arms  was  imperative,  and  Pollard 
took  it  for  granted  that  they  should  obey  and 
march  away,  and  be  seen  no  more.  He  was 
quite  content  that  they  should  do  so.  But, 
with  regard  to  himself,  such  a  course  seemed 
neither  sensible  nor  feasible. 

"What'd  I  do  with  a  gun,  let  alone  a 
325 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

bay'nit?"  he  would  inquire  facetiously.  "I 
shouldn't  know  which  end  to  catch  'old  on 
'im.    What  good 'ud  a' be?" 

Lately,  though,  there  had  stirred  in  his 
mind  a  tiny,  creeping  doubt  as  to  whether  it 
was  quite  justifiable  to  remain  in  this  state  of 
ignorance.  Much  talk  with  Robin,  or  rather 
much  listening  to  the  talk  of  Robin,  had 
opened  new  vistas  of  possibility  to  Pollard. 
He  realised  in  a  dim,  kindly  way  that  the 
child  was  homesick  and  lonely,  and  longing 
for  his  parents;  yet  the  little  boy  never  wished 
they  had  not  gone.  The  Major's  letters,  too, 
repeated  word  for  word  by  his  little  son,  so 
simple  and  plain  in  their  language,  yet  told 
heroic  things  of  the  doings  of  his  men,  and 
these  men  Pollard  knew  were  "poor  Injuns" — 
"blackies"  he  had  called  them,  till  Robin  in- 
dignantly denied  that  they  were  anything  of 
the  sort. 

It  began  to  dawn  upon  Pollard  that  the 
heathen  in  his  blindness,  who  had  crossed  the 
seas  to  fight  for  old  England,  was  perhaps 
doing  more  to  uphold  her  honour  than  cer- 
tain young  Englishmen  who  could  go,  and  re- 
mained peacefully  at  home.  He  had  inquired 
326 


The  Contagion  of  Honour 

of  Robin  as  to  their  worship  of  "wood  and 
stone,"  but  Robin  could  throw  no  Hght  upon 
this,  declaring,  indeed,  that  his  father's  Sikhs 
"were  very  religious  men,  very  religious,  in- 
deed."   So  there  was  another  illusion  gone. 

Pollard  became  more  and  more  uncomfort- 
able and  uncertain.  The  red  posters  seemed 
to  reproach  him,  but  the  trench  finished  him 
altogether. 

As  he  walked  home  that  night  as  much 
"all  over  mould"  as  Robin  had  been  earher 
in  the  day,  the  good,  clean  smell  of  the  wet 
earth  in  his  nostrils  seemed  to  go  to  his  head 
like  wine,  for  he  kept  on  muttering  to  him- 
self: "There  be  summat  as  I  can  do,  any'ow." 

The  thought  that  a  man  who  could  dig 
might  be  of  use  "over  there"  was  positively 
staggering  in  its  intensity. 

Robin  was  allowed  to  sit  up  half  an  hour 
later  on  a  Saturday  evening,  and  during  that 
half-hour  Aunt  Monica  read  to  him  or  played 
spillikins  with  him,  or  helped  him  to  stick  in 
his  little  flags  on  the  big  map  mummy  had 
given  him  before  she  left. 

That  evening  they  did  the  map,  for  there 
327 


Children  of  the  Cotswolds 

were  a  lot  of  new  flags  to  stick  in  for  Russia. 
When  nurse  came  for  him,  as  they  climbed 
the  broad  staircase  together,  she  said  in  quite 
an  excited  voice:  "You  have  done  it  this 
time.  Master  Robin;  Pollard's  gone  for  a  sol- 
dier." 

"Gone!"  Robin  exclaimed  aghast,  "and 
never  said  good-bye,  nor  anything!" 

"Well,  not  exactly  gone;  but  'e's  'listed 
m  the  'Gloucesters — did  it  this  afternoon  over 
to  Cissister.    An'  it's  all  you;  he  says  so." 

"Me!"  cried  Robin — ^by  this  time  they 
were  in  the  nursery.  "I  never  sent  him.  I 
like  him.    I  don't  want  him  to  go." 

"Well,  anyw^ay,  he's  been  and  done  it  this 
afternoon,  and  his  mother's  in  the  kitchen 
this  minute  in  a  fine  takin'.  And  it's  all  along 
of  you  and  your  talk,  she  says." 

Robin  pondered.  "Of  course,  he's  right 
to  go,"  he  said  slowly;  "but,  truly,  I  never 
asked  him  to." 

"I  don't  know  who'll  do  the  garden,"  nurse 
said,  still  in  the  same  thrilled,  impressive 
voice,  "or  what  Vicar'U  say,  or  Miss  Rivers." 

"Will  Aunt  Monica  be  angry?"  Robin 
asked,  vaguely  troubled.  It  was  bad  enough 
328 


The  Contagion  of  Honour 

to  lose  Pollard,  but  if  everybody  blamed  him 
for  it  .  .  .  and  just  then  who  should  come 
into  the  nursery  but  grandfather  himself. 

He  came  very  slowly,  for  he  was  an  old, 
old  gentleman. 

Robin  was  standing  by  the  fire  with  noth- 
ing on  but  his  vest  and  his  stockings. 

When  grandfather  reached  the  hearth-rug, 
he  held  out  his  hand.  "Grandson,"  he  said, 
solemnly,  "I  congratulate  you.  You've 
managed  to  do  what  none  of  the  rest  of  us 
could  do.  You've  roused  a  spark  of  patriot- 
ism in  PoUard.  Aunt  Monica  and  I  are  proud 
of  you." 

It  was  very  wonderful  to  shake  hands  with 
grandfather  like  that,  and  to  have  him  there 
looking  down  at  one  so  kindly  through  his 
gold-rimmed  glasses.  Robin  was  not  at  all 
sure  what  it  all  meant,  except  that  grand- 
father and  Aunt  Monica  were  not  angry, 
neither  with  Pollard  nor  with  him.  But  he 
did  connect  Pollard's  sudden  action  with  all 
he  had  told  him  about  daddy  and  mummy 
and  the  Sikhs. 

"I  suppose,"  he  said  thoughtfully,  "he 
kind  of  caught  it." 

329 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  134  780     6 


